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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275460">Not a Drop to Drink</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsjustliah/pseuds/itsjustliah'>itsjustliah</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Not a Drop to Drink [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Can Androids Consent? The Fic, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Praise Kink, Connor is a Good Boy, Detroit Police Department (Detroit: Become Human), Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Protagonist, Femdom, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Happy Ending, Mildly Dubious Consent, My Betas Made Me Write This, POV Second Person, Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Praise Kink, Pre-Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Reader-Insert, Retelling, Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, Swearing, Topping from the Bottom, Woman on Top, sensitivity play</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:34:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>79,338</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsjustliah/pseuds/itsjustliah</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You're one of Detroit's Finest, a detective with a hell of a good record under your belt. You're ready to throw an old-fashioned tantrum when the higher ups stick you with CyberLife's latest and greatest expensive plastic toy -- until you notice how eerily good looking this motherfucker is.</p><p>People are getting murdered. Androids are going deviant.<br/>And if that fucking android doesn't stop putting things in his mouth, you're about to go full-blown deviant yourself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Not a Drop to Drink [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1918144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>228</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1204</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, androidfuckers.<br/>If you're here thirsting for Reader/Connor smut, find it here:<br/>C20 (ENDING H03): Femdom, Sensitivity Play, Woman On Top, PIV Sex<br/>C23 (ENDING W03): Femdom, Topping From the Bottom, Oral Sex (M&gt;F)</p><p>If you prefer slow burn with your porn, please read on.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    The first thing you notice is the walk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You have your reasons for hating androids, of course. The staggering unemployment rate, the steadily increasing price for the newest models, the fact that you can't walk more than six steps in public without spotting one or a dozen of them. Then there's, well... you're not about to revisit </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> particular memory. Not again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Especially not now, when the room is filled with the stench of drugs and death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You've listened to the briefing, of course. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Carlos Ortiz. Been dead a while. Stabbed to death, blood everywhere, but especially in the letters written on the wall above his corpse.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You stared at said letters for a good while after arriving. Too perfect to be human.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Android murderers. What would those CyberLife assholes think up next?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Robot detectives, it seems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You let your eyes wander from the disheveled corpse to the android across the living room, who's carefully opening, then closing the doors to the cabinet on the wall. He starts walking again, and that </span>
  <em>
    <span>twinge</span>
  </em>
  <span> in your throat comes back. There's something wrong about that walk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It takes you a moment to parse the thought. No, it's not that it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong,</span>
  </em>
  <span> it looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>natural.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The </span>
  <em>
    <span>fact</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it looks so natural, despite the android's crisp uniform and glowing LED, is what's throwing you off. You're too used to the androids in the station, strutting about with a gait that's </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> too smooth, too calculated to be human. Someone smarter than you'd said something about a difference in weight or center of gravity, which would have made sense if you weren't staring at a robot walking </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> like a human might.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He kneels down, examining an unremarkable patch of wood. His heels lift off the floor. A moment later, he stands again, shifting forwards and using momentum to step over a bottle on the floor, then round a corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It was real. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Too</span>
  </em>
  <span> real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Is this what all those smart fuckers on TV call the "uncanny valley"?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Detective?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You snap out of whatever hypnotic trance the android--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor, shit, use its name, asshole--</span>
  </em>
  <span> is putting you into and turn to face the older police officer addressing you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Sorry, you were asking something?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Yeah, just..." He lowers his voice, though his whispering doesn't keep his mustache from twitching with every word. "The chief signed off on this android business?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Probably wasn't his decision to make." You glance back over at the android pacing around the kitchen. "Thing says it's sent by CyberLife."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Shit. Must be expensive, then." He takes a deep breath and sighs. "You don't think they're recording everything here, right? Not gonna send a video to the chief?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It's your turn to sigh, though you add a hand scratching at your temple. "You know those CyberLife bastards are recording everything their androids see and hear. Don't know if they give enough of a shit about us to keep us in line like that, not without the precinct paying big bucks."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "I suppose that makes sense."</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Of course it does,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think, holding back a huff. Patience. You're still working on it, but you're gonna make it work here, dammit. Murder always gets people on edge, and he's gotta be feeling anxious about an </span>
  <em>
    <span>android</span>
  </em>
  <span> murderer. Be understanding.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Patient.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your moment of deep breathing and self-reflection seems to have caught the officer's eye, because now he's giving you a concerned look. With a huff and a dismissive </span>
  <em>
    <span>"excuse me",</span>
  </em>
  <span> you break line of sight with him and head deeper into the decrepit, bloodstained house. Recordings or not, you aren’t about to let a robot detective sully the decade of good faith you'd built for yourself in the Detroit PD.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor, his name is Connor, use it--</span>
  </em>
  <span> is still wandering about the kitchen, so you take a moment to examine the back door. Closed, but unlocked. Figures someone already fucked with it. You sigh and pull it open. Immediately, the sound of pouring rain crashes into you, along with the smell and chill of humidity-soaked air. You step into it, welcoming the decidedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> stale air out on the concrete slab they called a porch, then let the door close behind you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Or you would, if the android hadn't followed you out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He steps up to your side and pauses. You can't bear to look. He's taller than you -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course they made them taller, what use was a short fucking android?</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- and that is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>least</span>
  </em>
  <span> unsettling thing you've noticed so far. For one, he's not saying anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "If it went out this way, we're fucked on footprints." You open your mouth without even thinking. Before you're done talking, you're </span>
  <em>
    <span>already</span>
  </em>
  <span> kicking yourself for your terrible habit of filling awkward silences. Androids don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>get</span>
  </em>
  <span> awkward, you remind yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "It hasn't been raining for long," he answers. God, his voice sounds so goddamn real, too. Enough that it draws your attention away from the splotchy mud of the deceased's 'backyard'. "The only prints I'm detecting are that of the police officers that traversed through this area approximately a half hour ago."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Real voice, robotic words. The programmers at CyberLife couldn't make him say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I see</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead of </span>
  <em>
    <span>I detect</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Seriously, what are those rich, uptight motherfuckers </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span> when they made something like </span>
  <em>
    <span>this?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> He's still staring out at the mud, and you're still staring at him, trying to decipher his designer's thought process. Skin that looks too perfect -- hell, he has tiny </span>
  <em>
    <span>freckles</span>
  </em>
  <span> around his eyes. His cheeks are mildly rosy, even though you know the "blood" flowing through the plastic underneath is a dark blue. His lips are well-shaped and plush, far too well-sculpted to merely aid in the production or imitation of speech.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> In an instant, a dangerous thought comes to mind.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>What kind of sick, sex-depraved CyberLife designer comes up with a detective robot that's this fuckable?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> His eyes flick to the left, connecting with yours. In that same instant, you can barely distinguish his optical units from real human eyes. They were so... </span>
  <em>
    <span>wet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Detective?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It's not like you to be so distracted. You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Is there something wrong?"</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Great,</span>
  </em>
  <span> now the hot robot is </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried</span>
  </em>
  <span> about you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "I'm fine." You say, sounding decidedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> fine. "I'm going to go look at the body."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You step back into the dry stench of the house and find your way back towards the corpse. Nothing like death to ground you again. Humans make sense. No gross nerds designing them to look or act perfect. They’re born the way they’re born, and die the way that they die. Shame this one had to get stabbed so many times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Another sigh, then you squat down next to the body, examining the torso more closely. You expect the puncture wounds to be more uniform, like the pixel-perfect letters on the wall, but there’s no logic to them. They look no different than the dozens of other victims you've seen over your career. No method. No thought. Just raw emotion, driving that blade into his body again, and again, and again.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Android murderers,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Emotional android murderers.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> That doesn’t make sense. Androids don’t feel emotion. They fake emotion, sure, like the androids at shop entrances, gleefully stating </span>
  <em>
    <span>"We're happy you visited today!"</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or the android cheerleaders at football games. But androids don’t get scared. They don’t get angry. They tend to take whatever punishment you dished out to them. That you know from the way your coworkers treat the android cops at the station.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    What’s the answer, then? Has to be something scary enough for CyberLife to send out their shiny new tech to investigate. A hacking attempt? Could make sense, given how fucked up the guy is. The media had warned everyone about hackers since driverless cars started taking over. What was stopping some punk from hacking a car and driving it into a playground? Same thing could go for androids. Nothing’s stopping some dipshit with a VR headset and haptics from jumping into someone's housekeeper android and stabbing the shit out of them. Nothing save for CyberLife's security and encryption, of course, but you trust CyberLife's security about as much as you trust their statements about "valuing your privacy".</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You're deep in thought and chewing at your lip when the android--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor, for God's sake, woman--</span>
  </em>
  <span>kneels down beside you. This time, thankfully, you stop yourself from filling the </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> awkward silence. You can't stop yourself from glancing to see what he's doing, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Without skipping a beat, or noticing that you're staring, the android rubs two fingers against the residue on the corpse's hand, then opens his mouth and </span>
  <em>
    <span>touches his fingertips to his tongue.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Holy shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> You jolt to your feet in a motion far more robotic than any android. Your face is growing hotter by the second, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> not only embarrasses you, but pisses you the hell off. What-- what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> was that? Not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>tasting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you were sure that had </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do with analysis or sampling or </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> shit you'd heard on the news, but your </span>
  <em>
    <span>reaction.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jesus, you'd think you were some prepubescent boy seeing a hot piece of ass walk into the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It is becoming </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> clear what is happening to you, and you know exactly what you need to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You need a fucking drink.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>But of course, he had to go and ruin that, too,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think, rolling your eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "I think I know what happened," Connor says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    At least you've got your attitude ready. You shrug. "I'm all ears."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He explains, and you follow, though you're barely listening. You're half-stuck on his walk, half-stuck on that </span>
  <em>
    <span>tongue.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Who gives an android a </span>
  <em>
    <span>tongue?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why couldn't he sample shit with, you don't know, his fingers? If you ever needed evidence that the nerds at CyberLife were perverts, here is Exhibit Fuckin' A.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Patience,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you remind yourself. Once you get this murder solved, you won't have to see him-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- again. It'll go back to CyberLife, report on how fucked up this murder is, then go back into a box or </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span> they did with unused units. Put him back on the contactless charger or some shit, you don't know. Whatever they do, you don't care. One night with this plastic detective and you're done. You can muster up the patience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor reaches for a chair, which snaps you out of your android-induced trance for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fourth</span>
  </em>
  <span> time in twenty minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Hey! The hell do you think you're doing?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Just trust me," Connor answers in that too-perfect, too-calm voice.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> "Not about to happen just yet, Connor," you bark, following after him as he strides down the hallway. "Tell me what you're up to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He sets the chair in the center of the hallway and steps up onto the seat. "The deviant didn't go out the front or back door." He reaches upwards, then pushes open the attic trapdoor. "It's still here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "Shit." You unholster your gun out of habit. The sound alone catches the android's attention, and he glances back towards you with those uncannily human eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    "We want it as undamaged as possible, Detective."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There's something about that tone of voice that's uncanny, too. Most androids swing towards one end of the spectrum or the other: flat and emotionless or overexcited and eager. This is new. Uncomfortably familiar. Just firm enough to be a warning, an </span>
  <em>
    <span>order,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but warm enough to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>caring, especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> when spoken with those soft lips on that young, handsome face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He lifts himself into the attic, disappearing, save for the sound of his heavy footsteps. The silence is tense. You hear shuffling behind you as the half-dozen police officers nervously watch from behind their new human shield: you. Nothing you're not used to, of course; the men of the force are quick to throw you in front of them when they’re too scared to handle something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Just as you are quick to throw an android to the wolves when you’re too scared to handle </span>
  <em>
    <span>this.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> "It's up here, Detective!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You let out the breath you’re holding and turn it into an exhausted groan. The tension turns to energy, jolting you forward to hop onto the chair and poke your head into the square opening on the ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness, especially when the android--</span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> androids--are glowing that eerie blue. You use that moment to pull one forearm up onto the dusty attic floor and adjust your vantage point. Eventually, through the shadows, you're able to make out the hunched-over form of the battered deviant, and the other android looming menacingly over it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It--</span>
  <em>
    <span>he--</span>
  </em>
  <span>turns his head and gaze towards you, LED cycling a cool, steady blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Then, he smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Not a cocky smile, either. Almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>genuine.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Expectant. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Proud.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> He wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>acknowledgement.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> And that makes your skin heat up a-fucking-</span>
  <em>
    <span>gain</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>CyberLife,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think as you pull yourself up into the attic, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you disgustingly horny motherfuckers.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span> It's not until you return to the station that you realize you are hardcore projecting.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspired and beta'd by my androidfucker friends. This is your fault, you horny nerds.</p><p>Welcome to the "what if instead of a Dad, the detective partner was a straight woman who couldn't control her Horny Levels over the sweet android sent by CyberLife" fic that is entirely self-indulgent. This is my canon, now choke on it.</p><p>Will get hornier as time goes on, I swear. Stay tuned, androidfuckers.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    For some godforsaken reason, they want <em>you</em> to interrogate a robot.</p><p>    It makes no goddamn sense. Why even have you try? Couldn’t you just plug some kind of USB cord into them and download their memory, or sit them in a charging station and pull the motion data or something?</p><p>    Of course you’ve asked, and of <em>course </em>the answer was <em>no, because it’s deviant. </em>You still aren’t sure what exactly <em>deviant</em> means, and Connor’s explanation has left you wanting, so to speak. Apparently, it refers to the fact that the android is no longer following its programming. Deviating from the program. Deviant. Makes sense, but didn’t explain why the thing had decided to grab a knife and stab its owner twenty-eight times, before painting on the wall with his blood and <em>fashioning some kind of religious symbol in the bathroom from God knows what?</em></p><p>You can figure it out later. For now, you focus on the important parts. Deviants can feel fear. That alone means threatening it, or soothing it, might be enough to get it to admit to the murder.</p><p>    Not like they’re really going to try an android for murder, though. They--<em>CyberLife--</em>just want to know what makes this thing tick.</p><p>    And so do you, to be honest.</p><p>    Fine. You’ll give the interrogation an honest try. At the very least, your distaste for both androids <em>and</em> murdering scumbags will help. Who knows if it’ll work, but at least you can say you tried <em>everything.</em></p><p>As always, though, just as you’re resigned to your embarrassing fate, destiny makes things worse.</p><p>    You push open the door to the interrogation room, folder tucked under your arm. As soon as it reaches the end of its arc, the shadow gives way to the one face you really don’t want to see right now.</p><p>    “Hey there, Pumpkin.”</p><p>    “Hey there, Dipshit.” You grunt at Gavin as you slump into the waiting chair. </p><p>    You and Gavin started at the DPD around the same time, during which he was more than happy to teach you the importance of a good nickname. Due to some sweet, naive beliefs you’d once held, you earned yourself the sweet-sounding <em>Pumpkin. </em>Due to the sweet, lovely way he acted, Gavin earned himself the nickname <em>Dipshit</em>. He tolerates you calling him that, and you tolerate him calling <em>you</em> Pumpkin, so all's right with the world.</p><p>    At the very least, he’s the only person in the entire department willing to go toe to toe with your shit attitude.</p><p>    He’s also the only person in the entire department to ask you out on a hot date and get shot down.</p><p>    Twice.</p><p>    Which, in retrospect, is probably <em>why </em>he keeps giving you so much fucking attitude.</p><p>    “Where’s the tin can?” He shifts against the wall, clearly irritated, but then again, when <em>isn’t</em> he irritated?</p><p><em>    When he’s irritating, </em>an answer chimes in your head.</p><p>    “Making a report to CyberLife or something. I don’t know.” You do, because he told you. <em>I’m going to submit a report to CyberLife. </em>Christ.</p><p>    Gavin scoffed. “Is that what it’s doing? Thought it was out of batteries.”</p><p>    “I don’t give a shit.” You do, but the <em>last</em> person who needs any additional fodder against you is this asshole right here, so you keep your damn mouth shut.</p><p>
  <em>    If only Gavin could learn to do the same.</em>
</p><p>    “What kind of fucked-up model is it, anyway?”</p><p>    “What?” You flip open the folder and try your best to ignore Detective Dipshit.</p><p>    “Your new partner. Never seen anything like <em>that </em>walking around.”</p><p>    You don’t look up. “Probably because it’s a prototype. Detective android or something.”</p><p>    “Detective android? What, they coming for <em>our</em> jobs now, too? Christ,” he laughs, “my mother was fucking right.”</p><p>    “Not if I have anything to say about it,” you grumble. As badly as you want to banter with Gavin, you do technically have work to do, and he is being anything but productive. </p><p>    “Prototype, though. Huh.” The other detective snorts, then swallows. “Explains why he looks so fucking human.”</p><p>    <em>No kidding, </em>you think.</p><p>    “How do you think they design these guys, huh?” Oh, God, he’s <em>still talking. </em>“I mean, look at him. They just get a bunch of horny millennials in a room and tell them to describe the 'perfect partner'?"</p><p>    "That explains what <em>you </em>were doing last weekend, Gavin."</p><p>    He pauses, then snorts again. Chalk up yet another win for you on the banter front. At least he finally stopped talking. Knowing this is your moment, you slide the photos back into the folder, snap it shut, and stand.</p><p>     “You’re really gonna do this, huh?”</p><p>     “Orders are orders,” you grunt.</p><p>    Gavin scoffs and leans back against the wall. “You gonna play good cop, or bad cop?”</p><p>    You roll your eyes at him and take the bait. “Seeing as you’ve already filled the quota for bad cop--”</p><p>     “Ha.”</p><p>    “--we’ll fucking see what works.”</p><p>    You turn towards the door and reach for the handle, but it comes flying toward you before you have a chance to grasp it. Like clockwork, quite <em>literally</em>, you suppose, Connor arrives, though he pauses in the portal as he looks at--<em>analyzes--</em>you.</p><p>    Always the hypocrite, you begin to do the same, starting a short, silent stalemate that you hope a certain loudmouth behind you doesn’t notice. God, even the jitter of his eyes is hyperrealistic, and the fluttering of his eyelashes. Christ, they gave an android <em>eyelashes like that? </em>It’s so much easier to see now that you’re standing six inches away from him. He has one lock of hair that’s completely out of place, no matter how he moves his head. How haven’t you noticed it before? And those soft features. <em>Kissable. Rideable, </em>even.</p><p>    No doubt about it, this was the work of some <em>really</em> sick fuck at CyberLife.</p><p>    He raises an eyebrow, turning that blank, robotic look into one that shows far too much emotion for an android. Curiosity. Confusion. That same <em>eagerness.</em></p><p>    <em>That really is a good look for him.</em></p><p>    The thought smacks you across the face and breaks you out of your self-imposed stalemate.</p><p>     “Move.” You huff.</p><p>    Connor complies. “Sorry, Detective.”</p><p>    Ugh. Of <em>course</em> they made him a sweet little suck-up.</p><p>    <em>Speaking of sucking, I bet he’d be--</em></p><p>    You slam the door behind you. <em>No.</em> You are <em>working. </em>You are going to interrogate a <em>murderer. </em>Yes, it’s an android, and <em>yes,</em> maybe the new shiny toy from CyberLife is designed to be <em>cute</em>, but you are <em>not </em>going to let your stellar work record get jeopardized by a few disgusting thoughts about <em>finding yourself a hot new android sex toy</em>.</p><p>    Slamming the second door doesn’t help that thought, or the sudden heat spreading through your neck and cheeks. Maybe doing some actual fucking work will take your mind off <em>that.</em></p><p>    You’ve done this too many times to count, so it’s no wonder you fall into your usual habits, first by whapping the folder down onto the table, then slumping into the chair opposite the perp and kicking one leg up over the corner. It’s not until you’re halfway into position that you realize what the <em>fuck </em>you’re doing and put your leg back on the ground. Overfamiliarity shakes <em>human </em>perps, but this is an android. A robot. A <em>machine.</em></p><p>How the fuck did you get a <em>machine </em>to talk?</p><p>    <em>Hey, CyberLife, tell me if this android killed his owner.</em></p><p>If only. Time to give it the old college try.</p><p>    “Uh, hello.”</p><p>    You resist the urge to cringe. <em>Hello? </em>It’s an android, not a person. Just ask it to tell you shit. That’s how these things work.</p><p>     “Tell me what happened the night your owner died.”</p><p>    You wait. Nothing. The damn thing doesn’t move a muscle.</p><p>    You check the date on the folder. “Tell me what happened on October 17th.”</p><p>    No response. The thing might as well be a statue, save for the cycling yellow LED.</p><p>    Fuck. Why are they making you do this?</p><p>    “Do you remember what happened? Have data logs for that day?” Shit, do they even call them data logs? “Did anyone try to hack into you, or…”</p><p>    Nothing.</p><p>    What did you expect, really? Did you really think it was going to talk?</p><p>    <em>Patience, </em>you remind yourself. Deep breaths in, then out. Maybe you need to reset and try again. Turn yourself off and on again like a damn machine. Ironic as it is, it has a nasty habit of helping.</p><p>    You stand up and retreat back into the observation room with a sigh, scratching at your head. Gavin, Dipshit that he is, begins to clap.</p><p>    “Bravo, detective. Excellent show.”</p><p>    “I’ll be here all week.” You’re not too proud to deny defeat, even here.</p><p>    “You could always try roughing it up a little bit. After all,” he glances towards the <em>other </em>android. “It’s not human.”</p><p>    Before you can squint menacingly at Gavin, the <em>other</em> is piping up.</p><p>    “Androids don’t feel pain, Detective. It wouldn’t work.”</p><p>    Two can ride the Refute Gavin train, so you jump in. “And androids aren’t afraid to die, either.”</p><p>    Connor turns his too-human attention to you. “Deviants are.”</p><p>    There’s that mix of emotion again. Kindness, insistence, and again, <em>eagerness.</em></p><p>Sometimes, you wish you weren’t so fucking good at reading people, because now, you’re reading <em>androids.</em></p><p>“Fine, then.” Gavin throws his hands up in mock exasperation. “What’s your big idea?”</p><p>    A pause. “I could try interrogating it.”</p><p>    A decent idea, but one that earns the poor thing one of Gavin’s patented annoying laughs. He gestures towards the android, then you, as if expecting you to applaud his incredibly weak efforts. You decide, instead, to ignore them.</p><p>    No, your traitorous focus is on Connor, <em>again, </em>trying to read those complex emotions that sick fucking programmer baked into his behavior. Who programs an android to look <em>innocent? </em>Those fucking expressive, piercing eyes. That eagerness shines through, no matter how you try to read it. He <em>wants </em>to get the information out of that android. <em>Wants </em>to solve the case, to complete the mission.</p><p>    He wants to <em>please.</em></p><p>Your stomach does a rather impressive somersault into your throat.</p><p>    <em>I could get used to him looking at me like that.</em></p><p>    “Knock yourself out,” you say.</p><p>    Connor nods, then walks out, but not without your lecherous eyes following him the entire way. Your gaze starts at the nape of his neck--<em>sick fucks--</em>then runs down to the small of his back--<em>disgusting perverts--</em>then along his backside. He moves quickly, though, and soon, the door is closing behind him, leaving you only with a deeply disappointing thought.</p><p>    <em>Shit. I want to fuck an android.</em></p><p>It’s not as if this is your first time even considering it. You’re a hot-blooded young woman; of course you thought about it once you saw just the kind of handsome faces those creeps at CyberLife were coming up with. Androids are nothing compared to the real thing, though; of that, you are convinced. Plus, only gross, loser women playing video games in their mother’s basement had sex robots. You might’ve grown up a nerd, but you aren’t a loser. You are the best fucking detective the DPD has gotten their grubby hands on in the better part of a decade, and no asshole is going to catch you riding one of those plastic pricks, even if you <em>have </em>been single for over five years now, and the running joke in the department is that Gavin will get married before <em>you</em> do, and now, you have a pretty plastic pet that is <em>desperate</em> to accomplish his mission, and--</p><p>    Okay. Fine. Maybe <em>you</em> <em>fucking an android </em> isn’t as unlikely as you thought.</p><p>    “What’s wrong, Detective?” Gavin quips from behind. “Considering abandoning the human race for some android dick?”</p><p>    “If I had to choose between you and <em>that,</em>” you gesture towards Connor without making eye contact with the other detective, “I’d pick <em>that</em> in a heartbeat.”</p><p>    It’s a low blow, but hopefully Gavin takes the hint. Knowing him, though, this isn’t going to be the last of his jokes on <em>that </em>particular topic.</p><p>At least now you’ve got a show to watch: Connor is examining the photos from the folder, now, and there’s <em>something </em>about how they’ve programmed him to sway ever-so-slightly as he stands. Not only that. He shifts his weight. He stretches his shoulders.He leans forwards, then back. Idle animations, a programmer might call them, but it makes him look real. If you didn’t know he was an android, you’d definitely be fooled. Hell, from the disgusting thoughts popping up into your mind, you apparently already <em>are</em>.</p><p>    His thumb fidgets against his index finger, drawing your detective’s eye to his hand. He leans forward and splays his fingers out against the page, smoothing over the edge with a delicate touch.</p><p>    You swallow. Android fingers don’t have fingerprints, right? What would <em>that</em> feel like?</p><p>    His fingertips sweep the folder down the table, centering it in the space directly before the chair. He sits down with one hand on the back of the chair, as if to leverage himself. Do androids <em>need</em> to do that, or was that another one of CyberLife’s horny programmers adding <em>personality </em>to a machine?</p><p>    Connor leans forward and begins the interrogation. You can hear him well and clear, but honestly, you’re not <em>listening. </em>You’re more interested in watching him operate than seeing if he can get a confession out of the murderous android. The slight mannerisms you found disconcerting earlier are amplified tenfold. He starts gently. Carefully, cautiously. Voice low, calm. Establishing rapport with the subject, like you learned at the Academy, only<em> better. </em>Every single part of his expression--his eyelids, his gaze, his intonation, his volume, his choice of words-- is perfectly sculpted. </p><p>    Of <em>course </em>it was, you remind yourself, but you’re already enthralled. How did someone <em>create </em>something so flawless? Is <em>this </em>how far technology has come, or…</p><p>    Or <em>what?</em></p><p>    He reaches for the folder and gently pries it open. Those fingertips, again, so precise, so <em>tender. </em>Imagine what they could <em>do</em> with a bit of strength behind them.</p><p>    His tone darkens. Step two of some interrogation technique, the “fear up” technique. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying, because you’re too focused on that slight <em>dip</em> in his voice. It doesn’t take long for you to realize he dropped the <em>eagerness</em> from before. Who knew it would make his threats sound that much colder-- or so much <em>hotter?</em></p><p>     “Shit.” Gavin hisses, pulling you out of your thoughts. “We really are gonna lose our fucking jobs.”</p><p>     “Shut up.”</p><p>    For once, he listens.</p><p>    Something Connor says causes the murderbot to jolt awake. <em>“No!”</em>, it cries. <em>“Please.” </em>Its pupils constrict. Its synthetic voice wavers. Its hands clench into fists, mechanical muscles stiffening. For being an android, its reaction nearly exactly matches the description of <em>fear</em> the Academy drilled into you.</p><p>    It is actually <em>scared.</em></p><p>    CyberLife hadn’t programmed <em>that</em> into its janitor robots, now, had they? Is this what he meant by <em>deviant? </em>Didn’t that just mean they weren’t following their programming, like some kind of broken Roomba, bumping into walls? What kind of programming error makes <em>this </em>happen?</p><p>    Not only that, but if it really <em>does </em>feel fear, then why didn’t it respond at all when you tried talking to it earlier? Is it because Connor’s an android, and you’re not? Makes sense, though, like some women only wanting female gynecologists to handle their bits.</p><p>    <em>I’d tolerate a male android handling my bits if it were--</em></p><p>    Jesus Christ, what the <em>hell</em> has gotten into you?</p><p>Something terrible, it seems. As Connor leans into the fear up technique, his expression morphs, losing the kindness altogether now, his voice takes on hints of nearly <em>human </em>anger as a single threat heightens the tension in the room. You grit your teeth. His shoulders stiffen, his fingers unfurl against the flat surface, and he stands, smoothly, <em>menacingly, </em>tugging that tension tighter as he rounds the table. </p><p>    <em>Shit. </em>Okay, so the robot-- android--<em>Connor--</em>is hot. Not because he’s an android, or because you’re some sick, twisted person, but because <em>another </em>sick, twisted person <em>made</em> him this way. You’re not the only one who’s thought this way about this machine. Hell, even Gavin has gone just as quiet as you have. This is <em>expected. </em>Still, you can keep quiet about it. You’re good at keeping shit from showing. That’s not about to change because some intentionally handsome, absolutely obedient piece of plastic is getting you all--<em>ugh--</em> hot and bothered.</p><p>He plants his palm next to the prisoner’s cuffed hands, drawing uncomfortably close to the other android, and drops his voice to a whisper. You can barely make out what he says, even with the microphones relaying every word, but just one is enough to make everything worse.</p><p>    <em>“Please.”</em></p><p>
  <em>    Shit.</em>
</p><p>His lips barely move as he murmurs to the other android. The motion is impossibly human, so much that you’re already starting to envision your thumb smoothing over them.</p><p>    He’d probably let you do it if you asked nicely.</p><p>    <em>“Please.”</em></p><p>The deviant is on the verge of cracking, and so are you.</p><p>    He’d let you do a <em>lot</em> of things.</p><p>    With his fingers. With his mouth.</p><p>    With that <em>tongue.</em></p><p>    It’s not as if CyberLife doesn’t have an entire line of sex robots. Knowing those sick bastards, he’s probably <em>fully</em> capable.</p><p>    Before you can stop it, another thought pops into your head, one even more dangerous than the last dozen.</p><p>    <em>That’s a lot of money to spend on an overpriced Hitachi wand, sis.</em></p><p>Kent <em>would</em> say something like that, wouldn’t he?</p><p>    The thought, and deluge of emotions that came with remembering Kent’s beloved banter, pulls the rug out from under your disgusting, self-constructed fantasy. As it comes crashing down around you, the warmth in your lips and thighs fades, leaving you with guilt and shame in addition to the usual grief Kent’s voice brings.</p><p>    The android--the <em>deviant--</em>is talking. Admitting to everything. Connor is back in his seat, calmly questioning him, having completely switched gears.</p><p>    “He’s fucking good,” Gavin mutters.</p><p>    And you’re so fucking awful.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    Despite your best attempts to control any distracting thoughts, much like the mythical hydra, as soon as one is squashed, two more appear in its place.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>It’s not your fault,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you keep reassuring yourself. Someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>made </span>
  </em>
  <span>him this way. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> this was going to happen, and now, it’s happening. It was inevitable, really. Nobody can blame you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Which is exactly why you don’t bother stopping yourself from staring at his stupid, perfect face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    At the moment, said face is staring at a terminal screen, sifting through information. You’re not really sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>he needs to use the terminal; can’t he just link up through Bluetooth and load the information into his cyberbrain, or something? Or is this all for show, for the humans he’s supposedly designed to work with?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You frown, then bury that frown against the cool aluminum of your Red Bull can and take a swig. Not even 9 A.M., and you’re already thinking about dragging the poor android into an evidence locker and assaulting him.</span>
  <em>
    <span> But again, that’s not my fault, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you remind yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Seems you’re going to need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>keep </span>
  </em>
  <span>reminding yourself of that for the foreseeable future, as the Powers That Be have decreed that you’re going to be babysitting him on this investigation. You tried to get out of it-- find someone else to take it! </span>
  <span>Fowler shot that down</span>
  <span>; everyone else is busy. Let you pick a human partner instead! </span>
  <span>Not happening; </span>
  <span>CyberLife </span>
  <em>
    <span>insists</span>
  </em>
  <span> that their prototype aid in the investigation, and it needs a skilled detective to chaperone it. There was nothing you could do but swallow your pride, and the sickening feeling in your stomach, and storm out of the Chief’s office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Now, you’re stuck three feet away from the damn thing, forcing your way through the world’s most boring paperwork just to avoid making conversation with it--</span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sure, the paperwork needs getting done, but it isn’t crucial to the investigation. Not that Connor, or anyone else, needs to know that. Besides, it makes sense that the android is doing the research. He’s literally designed to analyze and organize information. No sense in you wasting your time on it.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>But of course</span>
  <span>, the second you finally start to feel a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little</span>
  </em>
  <span> more at ease, the damn thing decides to address you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective, do you have a moment?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Yes, you do. “Not really, why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “We should review our current leads. Then, we can determine our next course of action.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>I could be your next course of action.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> your dirty mind twists that into something sexual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glance up, blink, then look back at the papers strewn before you. “Later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There’s silence for a moment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Then, the android stands, as if to leave. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Even better.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Instead, he rounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>desk, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>sits on the goddamn edge.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>What kind of android </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> this? What kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> programmed him to--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I understand if you’d like to finish your paperwork first,” he begins matter-of-factly, “but it’s imperative that we progress the case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You tear your eyes from your busywork to glare at him. A bad habit, one you’ve been meaning to break, and a gesture that will likely be lost on this piece of plastic. As expected, he doesn’t flinch. All you see is the same insistent </span>
  <em>
    <span>eagerness </span>
  </em>
  <span>that’s been tormenting your waking hours for the last few days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    To make things worse, you’re not the only one staring at Connor. You don’t even need to break eye contact with him to know the entire office is watching. Of course they’re entranced by him too--</span>
  <em>
    <span>thank God, you’re not the only one--</span>
  </em>
  <span>and terribly interested in seeing how this is going to turn out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You have a reputation to uphold. You don’t let </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> boss you around. Not without a fight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fine.” You spit, leaning back in your chair and feigning exasperation. “If you get me another Red Bull.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He smiles--</span>
  <em>
    <span>shit--</span>
  </em>
  <span>and raises a brow--</span>
  <em>
    <span>God damn it--</span>
  </em>
  <span>and replies. “There are three in the minifridge beneath your desk, Detective. Unless you’d like me to retrieve one from the break room instead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For once, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally, </span>
  </em>
  <span>your disgusting arousal is swiftly replaced with anger. Anger is good. Anger you know how to wield like a weapon. Your eyes narrow into a much fiery glare, and a growl dips into your response. “You went through my shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Not physically,” he explains, still maintaining that sweet--or </span>
  <em>
    <span>smarmy--</span>
  </em>
  <span>smile. “It’s a smart appliance; it wasn’t difficult to interface with it when I arrived.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>interfaced</span>
  </em>
  <span> with my </span>
  <em>
    <span>fridge?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Oh, the office’s eyes are </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> on you now. The sounds of keyboards and conversations have all but stopped. “What the fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> did you interface with? Did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>analyze </span>
  </em>
  <span>all the shit on my desk, too, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android shifts backward. He blinks, lips barely parting. He almost looks taken </span>
  <em>
    <span>aback. Offended.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“I just thought it would be conducive to forming a good working relationship if we learned a bit more about one another.” He replaces his uncertain look with one that’s half-friendly, half-pleading.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You grit your teeth. Android or not, you aren’t about to put up with some prying asshole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “If I want you to know more about me,” you hiss, “then I’ll fucking tell you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He falters, then replies, still half-pleading. “With all due respect, Detective, I was unsure if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>would, </span>
  </em>
  <span>even if I asked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Two desks over, one of the newer officers whispers something into her headset. The sound shifts your attention away from the insistent android to the audience around you. The office has come to a standstill, noise only filtering back into the air as soon as the observers realize you’ve caught on to your unwitting performance. This argument is turning into a scene, and not one that everyone would joke about later, like riffing on Gavin, or playing a prank on an intern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Their eyes are on you. Watching. Listening. What were they thinking about you? Do they think you’re in the right, or do they think you’re being too harsh? Nobody here is an android sympathizer, right? Do they expect this reaction from you, or are they silently judging you? Can they see what you’re thinking? Do they know how </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful </span>
  </em>
  <span>you are?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You stand, chair shoved backwards into the wall with a clatter. Without thinking about who or </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re handling, your hand grabs at the bastard’s collar, wrapping around the knot of his tie, and jerks his torso forward, pulling his face towards yours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>your programming. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking case. You’re not my partner, you’re my assistant, at </span>
  <em>
    <span>best. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If you want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>assist, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> out of my way. Unless it’s absolutely important, you leave me the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> alone. Have I made myself clear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    When you’re done, you’re practically seething, every muscle in your body tense with rage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    But of course, </span>
  <em>
    <span>then, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you realize exactly who or </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re trying to intimidate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>God.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>This close, you can see every synthetic pore in his silicone-projected skin. His freckles are asymmetrical. The lashes on his upper lid are longer than those on the lower. When his brow furrows, his temples tense and grow taut. His eyes scan your expression, but remain expressive, showing confusion, surprise, and feigned fear. His lip quivers ever-so-slightly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like a human’s.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You take a deep breath through your nose. No smell of sweat, no musk or heavy cologne, just the scent of pressed laundry. Your mouth is wet. So is his. You can feel the warmth radiating out from the tip of his nose and the skin at his neck, which your knuckles are just barely brushing against.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s then that you realize: you’ve never touched an android before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You never expected them to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your fingers tighten around his tie. He swallows--or at least, the synthetic muscles at his neck </span>
  <em>
    <span>fake </span>
  </em>
  <span>a nervous swallow. You know it’s irrational, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s just a machine and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a deviant, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, </span>
  </em>
  <span>how sweet it would be if he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> a little afraid of you. You want him to be afraid. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>him to do as you say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For a moment, you want him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Crystal clear.” He whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You give him a shove to the left, just hard enough to force him off your desk. He stumbles a few steps, as gracefully as any human. The office stares for a moment longer as he rights himself, but quickly goes back to minding their own goddamn business. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>With that settled, you snatch up your half-empty Red Bull and begin to chug. You’ll regret this later, but for now, it feels good. Like asserting dominance, as stupid as it sounds. When it’s empty, you slam the can back onto the desk with the world’s most pathetic </span>
  <em>
    <span>clonk, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then pull the jacket off the back of your chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s still trying. You’d think something that expensive and advanced would know how to take a fucking hint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I need to cool the fuck off.” You tug on your jacket. “Find someone else to annoy while I’m gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glance towards him, but he’s avoiding eye contact. Maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> take a hint. “I’ll… do some more research on our must promising leads, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He walks back to his desk as you zip up and adjust. Another sigh, and you peek over the top of your terminal just to read his overly-expressive face. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>seem</span>
  </em>
  <span> too affected, but for the fraction of a second, you swear you see the tug of a frown at one corner of his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>It’s not real, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you remind yourself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s all some sick fuck’s simulation.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>If that’s true, though, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> things can he simulate?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s your turn to swallow. Maybe you shouldn’t have put on your jacket, because you’re just realizing how fucking hot you are.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>That’s not the only thing that’s--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You take off towards the back exit before the thought can complete itself. Nothing a bit of pre-winter air won’t solve. Get a cold breeze on your face, maybe some banter with whoever’s smoking outside, and you’ll forget any of this ever happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Until you go back to your desk, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Fucking hell, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think as you shove open the door. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d better solve this goddamn case before I lose my fucking mind.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>A week has come and gone, and so have you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Not on the clock, of course, and not at the fucking station. You’re not some sex predator or porn protagonist. No, you were smart enough to realize that </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe </span>
  </em>
  <span>taking a physical load off would help with your </span>
  <em>
    <span>android situation, </span>
  </em>
  <span>as you’re calling it, and took a short jaunt back to your apartment to “get a change of clothes”. The shame gnawed at your stomach the entire ten-minute drive there, but it conveniently dissipated as soon as you crawled under the sheets and </span>
  <em>
    <span>took care of business.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Unfortunately, it didn’t help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Not then, because when you slumped into your chair, you caught a glimpse of him spinning a pen between his surprisingly dexterous fingers. Your thighs might still have been weak from your self-inflicted punishment, but that didn’t stop your plastic thirst from assuming direct control of your thoughts once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It definitely didn’t help during one of the half-dozen investigations you conducted, chasing down missing robot after missing robot all across Detroit. No matter how old, ugly, or downright despicable the victim of lost property, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>was always there in the background, </span>
  <em>
    <span>touching </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>licking </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing something </span>
  </em>
  <span>to get your pupils dilated and your nostrils flared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    After a week of processing your lust through most of the Kubler-Ross stages of grief -- denial </span>
  <em>
    <span>(I don’t want to fuck an android), </span>
  </em>
  <span>anger </span>
  <em>
    <span>(What the fuck is wrong with me?), </span>
  </em>
  <span>bargaining </span>
  <em>
    <span>(Look, I’ll fuck Gavin if that gets me to stop looking at him like that)</span>
  </em>
  <span>--you’ve settled squarely in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>depression </span>
  </em>
  <span>stage. Humanity is doomed. Androids </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to ruin the birth rate. Sooner or later, everyone will know that you, Detective “Pumpkin”, revered asshole of the Detroit Police Department, youngest woman to join the force, is a filthy android fucker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Sadly for you, the very object of your base affections is following you around like a duckling after his mother, reminding you each and every second of your building depression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    At least that means acceptance is right around the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You could’ve waited outside,” you grumble, overly aware of the stares you’re getting from the handful of patrons in the sandwich shop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Protocol states that I must accompany you when we leave the station, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Of course it does.” You feel your shoulders droop even lower. Sweet acceptance, you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You can feel Connor’s eyes burning a hole into your cheek. That’s another unfortunate item you’ve come to understand over the last week: the hyper-advanced android is </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>good at analyzing human behavior. Maybe even better than you. And most of the time, seeing as you’re the human in closest proximity to him, he’s analyzing </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Is something wrong, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glance over to him. Still impossibly good-looking. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, but you don’t respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Are you concerned about the attention we’re attracting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You sigh. Why’s he have to be so good at reading people? “We do stick out like a sore thumb.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His brow furrows and his LED goes yellow. “We’re only a five-minute walk from the station. Police officers shouldn’t be uncommon here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Sure, you might be wearing your big, half-reflective DPD coat, but at least you’re not wearing a glowing fucking suit jacket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You’re right, they’re not.” You shoot him a pointed look. Thankfully, his analysis software could correctly interpret it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh. Right.” He pauses. “Would you prefer that I wait outside, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No, no, just--don’t draw </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>attention to us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Understood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He falls silent, but that doesn’t stop the staring. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Better get used to it,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you think, watching the employee’s eyes flick back and forth between your hungry ass and the tall, handsome android standing next to you. At least Connor is staring back at them with just as much curiosity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There’s something about that stare, too. Android eyes usually creep you the fuck out. Something about the way their eyes follow you, never glancing away. Sure, CyberLife made them blink, but it always looks weird.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor’s got the same blinking animation, but the movement is different. His focus constantly shifts and changes. His eyes wander, and his head and neck follow his gaze. Not only that, and possibly the worst fact of them all, when he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>analyzing something, the sick fucks made his whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>facial </span>
  </em>
  <span>expression change. Out in the field, it’s contemplative, serious, puzzled. Here in the sandwich shop, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>excited, curious, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and filled with </span>
  <em>
    <span>wonder, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like a child seeing a big Christmas light display for the first time. To the normal observer, it’s far more subdued, but you can see it clear as day. For one, you’re good at reading faces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Also, you spend </span>
  <em>
    <span>far </span>
  </em>
  <span>too much time staring at his damn perfect face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your sandwich finally appears atop the counter, thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>God. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You thank the employee, hold back the urge to apologize for your robot partner, and find a plastic booth to slump into. He, of course, takes the seat opposite, regarding both you and your meal with that same curious look.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Wonder if his eyes would look that innocent when you’ve got him between your legs, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that dark part of you purrs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You don’t even bother to shut it up. Instead, you take a gigantic bite of your sandwich, washing it down with a generous gulp of Red Bull. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He pauses mid-sentence, reacting to the heavy </span>
  <em>
    <span>huff </span>
  </em>
  <span>through your nose and the drooping of your eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “--I believe you’ve already consumed more than the recommended daily amount of caffeine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You keep your blank stare trained on his stupid face. This is far from the first time he’s commented on your health. Robot detective </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>nagging mother, apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m still tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He tilts his head to the side, then forward, much like a puppy. “Perhaps an adjustment in your diet or sleep schedule could help you feel more awake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     You take another bite of your bacon-and-cheese sandwich just to spite him. “Bug me again when they invent a charging station for humans. Maybe then I’ll think about calling it quits on the caffeine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He adjusts his head again, and for a split second, his mouth twitches into the hint of a smile. “Ironically, excessive caffeine consumption can cause sleep disruptions and insomnia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “The insomnia came before the Red Bull addiction, thank you.” The spite is strong in you today, so you take a sip from the half-empty can. Sure, it tastes like battery acid, but that’s half the kick. “Why’d you follow me to lunch, anyway? Could’ve stayed at the station and filed a report or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor breaks eye contact to glance down at the plastic-coated table. Funny how they’ve made him act so natural. Christ, it’s almost like he’s really contemplating what to say. Speechless, even.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Wonder if I could get the same reaction by pinning him up against the wall.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Your heart sinks. No acceptance yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He keeps his gaze leveled low as he begins speaking, voice hesitant, almost sheepish. “Recently, we’ve only spent time together during working hours in the station, or when we’re investigating a lead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android looks upward, searching for your eyes. You break contact to slam more caffeine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I thought it prudent to spend time with you outside of those situations to better understand you. Besides that, establishing rapport and trust between us would not only increase our chances of successfully solving the case, but it would also assist me in fulfilling this prototype’s purpose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “And what would that purpose be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “To be the best possible partner for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You cough on your last sip of Red Bull. The battery acid froths into a spray, coating the inside of your nose. At the same time, an extremely forbidden image constructs itself in your mind: a machine, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>machine, lying splayed out beneath you, jacket disheveled, collarbone exposed, eager eyes pleading up at you as your hand wraps around one of his wrists, desperate to fulfill his purpose by </span>
  <em>
    <span>filling you with--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Are you alright, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You snatch up a napkin and try your best to blow the uncomfortably fizzy liquid out of each nostril. Most of it comes out, but the smell remains. “I’m fine. Just choked on my drink.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ugh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>With a half-sigh, half-groan, you pull your tired eyes up to meet his still-curious, now slightly-worried expression. “The best possible… </span>
  <em>
    <span>detective</span>
  </em>
  <span> partner, I’m guessing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That’s right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    God, he looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>proud </span>
  </em>
  <span>of himself. It’s cute. Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glance away, hoping he doesn’t read the flush in your cheeks as anything other than embarrassment. “Why don’t you just be yourself? I don’t give a shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There’s that glimmer of a smile again. “In my defense, I’m told most humans alter their behavior based on the sociocultural context they’re in.” When you squint at him, he explains again. “You behave differently around others, depending on who and where you are. Think of this as no different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Smart-ass piece of shit. It makes you want to throw him up against a wall even more. Wipe that attitude off his damn perfect face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “The perfect partner, huh?” Your fingers inch along the side of your empty can, idly turning it in your palm. “That why they make you look like that, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “My appearance and voice were designed to facilitate android-human interaction and bonding.” This time, his lips turn upwards into a full smile, one that’s a bit wider than the one he showed Fowler back in his office. “Regrettably, it seems my design is more of a hindrance than a help to our working relationship.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You wipe the foul image of </span>
  <em>
    <span>android-human interaction and bonding </span>
  </em>
  <span>from your mind and take another bite of your sandwich. “Why'd you say that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor shifts in his seat--</span>
  <em>
    <span>another one of those stupid idle animations</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you remind yourself-- and folds his hands together atop the table. “You don’t seem to be able to look at me long before averting your eyes. Don’t worry, though, I don’t take it personally. I’m sure once we build enough rapport, you’ll find working with me </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>looking at me to be far more pleasurable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your squint morphs into a glare. Oh, those CyberLife fucks are </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing this shit on purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For once, you let your true thoughts come to the surface. “What sick fuck designed you to be like this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He doesn’t skip a beat. “Would you like me to retrieve that information for you?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No.” You grumble. Then, a moment later, “Yes. Email that shit to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Happy to help, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Maybe later, I can look up some profiles online and figure out just which sick, virgin fuck put the words “bonding” and “pleasurable” into this disturbingly good-looking machine’s vocabulary.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Strangely enough, the weight on your chest has lifted, if only slightly. You’re not as stiff as you were before you sat down. Realizing this only makes you more annoyed with the whole situation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s fucking working, too. He’s establishing some kind of fucked-up rapport. Christ.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Silence descends as you work through the last of your sandwich. As always, you feel the urge to fill the silence with a question or prompt, but you’re learning to suppress it around Connor. He doesn’t feel awkward silences. No need to fill them in if you’re the only one uncomfortable. Besides, the less he speaks, the less time you spend staring at those too-luscious lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re halfway through the final bite when, to your surprise, Connor breaks the silence on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “May I ask you a personal question, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You feel your eyes already drooping in resignation. “Depends on the question,” you slur around a mouthful of bacon, cheese, and sourdough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He nods. “Are you friends with Detective Reed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You snort, and thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span> it doesn’t go up your nose. Perhaps you learned your lesson from a few moments ago. Raising your hand to your mouth, you manage to swallow your food somewhat gracefully, before bursting out into genuine laughter. Between breaths, you catch a glimpse of Connor’s face, and the confusion only makes you laugh harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Eventually, you’re able to respond. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I see. I assumed from your banter at the station that you were close.” God, he actually looks disappointed. In himself, or in you? Probably in himself. If he were human, you would be patting him on the shoulder and reassuring him that you don’t think any less of him for being so stupid.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>No, he’s probably the type who’d like me to call him a ‘good boy’.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You scoff. “Banter is banter. He talks a lot of shit, I have to shoot it down, ‘less he thinks he can get away with it. Guy could quit tomorrow and I’d throw a party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor frowns, LED spinning yellow, before speaking slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, Detective, but I believe Detective Reed may be interested in pursuing a less-than-platonic relationship with you. He also has a number of disciplinary warnings against him for behavior in violation of the Detroit PD harassment policy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You know Connor’s good at reading people, hell, you’ve seen him on the job, but the fact he looked into Gavin’s history on your behalf is surprising, to say the least. The concern is endearing, though, and you’re not ashamed to admit that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Oh, sweet acceptance, you are so near.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Thanks for the tip, but I’m well aware.” You smile and shrug. “Guy’s asked me out twice in the last year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor raises an eyebrow. Endearing </span>
  <em>
    <span>indeed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You can’t help but reply in earnest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Don’t worry, I shot him down. Assholes aren’t my type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Without missing a beat, he answers, “Really? I would have assumed just the opposite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That gets another barked laugh out of you. “First of all, fuck you. Secondly,” you lean back in the uncomfortable booth, “I don’t like guys who talk shit to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He reaches for your empty can, lifting it as gently as any human. He maintains eye contact with you for a moment, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>smirks. Who teaches an android how to smirk? Shit! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’ll be careful not to do that, then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor winks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You grit your teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>A response worms its way out of your mouth before you have a chance to mull it over. “The fuck’s that mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Sorry, I was only trying to lighten the mood.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Instead, you’re putting me in the mood. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You raise your eyebrows and sigh. “Well, it was a good try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With your food and drink finished, you should be anxious to jump up and get back to the office, but you’re feeling strangely comfortable for some reason. Almost like you’re enjoying this little break. With </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You feel the urge to ask him a question, to keep the conversation going. You hate talking about yourself for this long, and don’t want him to think you’re full of yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Shit. You care about his opinion. What does </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>say about you?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    And what kinds of questions do you ask an android in the first place? Who makes conversation with an android, anyways, besides weirdo loners lusting after their maid?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>You’re one of them now, though.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Before you can find a suitable prompt, Connor fills the silence once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You keep looking at me, Detective. Is there something you’d like to ask?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Yes, actually. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why did CyberLife make their detective android hotter than a male model?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Not really.” You sigh. “Just thinking I’ve never worked with a detective android before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That curious smile appears on his lips again. “You would be the first, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Right. Prototype. How’s that feel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His frown falters--no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pauses. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Shit. Maybe that was the wrong question to ask. Androids don’t feel. They’re not supposed to have opinions. Connor is different, sure, but he’s no deviant. Not like you are, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I don’t have any particular feelings on the subject one way or the other,” he begins slowly, as if hesitant, “but if my design plays a key role in solving this case, then I suppose I’ll be pleased to be a prototype.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You watch as the hesitation shifts to a neutral expression, that usual eagerness twinkling in his too-human eyes. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>human, though. If only that fact didn’t make him even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>appealing to that dark side of you, thrumming between your thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Time for a more forceful reminder, then. “Prototype means they’ve hooked you up with all the latest tech and programming and stuff, right?” You shift in your seat, setting an elbow on the table and leaning to the side. “God, you must cost a fucking fortune.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Would you like to know how much my development cost?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    More than the $20 they charge at the Eden Club.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No, thanks. I’m anxious enough as it is. Don’t need to worry about owing CyberLife billions of dollars if I put you in a dangerous position or some shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Rest assured, Detective, you won’t be held responsible for any damage I suffer during the course of our investigation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No promises.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor smiles that half-kind, half-</span>
  <em>
    <span>smarmy </span>
  </em>
  <span>grin again. For a machine, he learns fast. Knows you like to joke around and banter. Just like he explained earlier, he’s adapting his conversation and behavior to get a better reaction out of you, and it’s working so well, you’re not even mad about it anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Actually, there is one thing I’d like to ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He opens his hands, gesturing for you to continue. “Shoot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Why the fuck’d they put all that chemical analysis equipment in your mouth and not in your hands, or literally anywhere else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Would you like the simple explanation, or the technical on--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Technical.” The simple explanation might be dangerous bait for that lust you’re nearly ready to accept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Exhaling, Connor folds his hands again and begins in a neutral tone. “The technology is based on earlier android prototypes that were designed to eat, drink, and excrete biological material in the same way humans do. When the idea failed in focus group testing, the development done on creating a chemical-analyzing tongue was borrowed and adapted for use in CyberLife’s police investigation android prototype, as the necessary parts could be easily integrated in the android’s design.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He pauses, likely reacting to the combination of discomfort and restrained embarrassment on your scrunched-up face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Don’t worry, the materials I analyze won’t have any negative consequences to my operational capacity.” He smiles. “I won’t get sick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You let your expression relax and let out another sigh. “Yeah, I know, just… it’s your </span>
  <em>
    <span>tongue.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Technically, human tongues are </span>
  <em>
    <span>also </span>
  </em>
  <span>very good at sampling and analyzing substances. Perhaps you could think of it that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, sure,” you raise your hand to vaguely gesture in the air, “but tongues do more than just taste shit, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He tilts his head. “Like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You open your mouth. Before you can reply, the dark android-fucking spirit within you conjures up yet another image to lead you astray: the flat of that wet tongue, pressed firmly to the split between your legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Nothing. Never mind.” Your hand rises to cover your reddening face. “I’ll get over it, I swear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Though you can’t see Connor’s face, you’re sure he’s making that confused, curious expression again. Probably better you can’t, because that’s the exact expression he was making in that image.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Forgive the interruption, Detective, but I’ve just received a message.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You lower your hand. “What’s up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It’s regarding the evidence query we submitted earlier. Everything we requested has been deposited in the case’s evidence locker back at the station.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Sounds like that’s our next stop, then.” You shimmy out of the plastic booth and roll your shoulders. “Don’t worry about the trash, they’ll clear it for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Understood.” He followed your lead and stood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As you walk past him, you plant a hand on his shoulder out of habit. Despite realizing just what or </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re touching, you don’t stop yourself from giving him a friendly pat. Even through the android jacket, you can feel how damn warm he is.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Nice.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “C’mon, sweetheart,” you chime, heading for the exit. “Let’s go check it out.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> If there’s one thing you can always count on, it’s the rest of the Detroit PD fucking up your organizational system. Every damn time you ask someone to add evidence to a case locker, put papers on your desk in the appropriate bin, or tag an email with the proper categories, someone <em> has </em>to fuck it up.</p><p>    So you’re not particularly surprised when, upon beeping yourself into the evidence containment room and calling up the evidence locker for your case, the wall slides open to reveal that anything and <em> everything </em>has been moved around.</p><p>    “Cocksuckers,” you swear under your breath. Kneeling down only confirms your worst expectations: every item in every shelf has been moved around. Really, they must have done this on purpose, thinking that <em> their </em> method makes more sense than your admittedly haphazard-looking system. Still, though, it <em> is </em>a system, one that’s now completely out of whack.</p><p>    You feel Connor looming over you, likely analyzing the new positions of each piece of evidence. “It seems they’ve categorized the evidence by type.”</p><p>    “Yeah, and it’s bullshit,” you grouse, pulling out a pile of folders and looseleaf papers. “It was organized by lead and location, and now it’s all fucked up.”</p><p>    A shadow at your shoulder jerks your attention towards the android. He’s leaning down, hands on his slightly-bent knees, cocking his head. Cute bastard. “Would you like my help? I remember where everything was before.”</p><p>    You raise a fistful of folders up in his direction. “That would be fantastic, sweetheart.”</p><p>    The nickname comes out of your mouth so easily. It’s short, endearing, and best of all, can be interpreted as patronizing and friendly, and not <em> romantic </em> or <em> sexual. </em> Plus, Connor seems to like it well enough. At least, he hasn’t complained.</p><p>    “You’d think after ten years…” You pause to refill your hand with more papers, passing them up to Connor again. “...they’d learn to stop fucking with my shit.”</p><p>    “It does seem like a rather large amount of effort to reorganize the entire locker.” He muses.</p><p>    “Yeah. It’s the same bullshit every time, too. ‘Use the same system everyone else does, in case something happens.’ Why should I have to inconvenience myself all the time for the small chance of my case getting handed off to someone else?” You accept a plastic bag containing a thirium-stained biocomponent found at the first location you visited. “Thanks.”</p><p>    “Of course.” The android turns his attention back to the folders up in the topmost cubby, shifting them into place and replacing the book that you previously used to keep them upright. “From what you’ve mentioned, it sounds as if the department is rather unwilling to adapt to your methodologies. To be honest, I’m not sure why.”</p><p>    The tone of his voice implies a <em> but I’d like to know, </em>so you indulge him with the answer.</p><p>    “Probably because I’m the only female detective,” you groan. “Had to fight for that promotion, too. You’d think we’d be better with this shit. It’s the 2030s, for Christ’s sake.”</p><p>    Connor glances down at you with that curious look, though this time, it’s accompanied by a frown. “That seems unfair.”</p><p>    “You’re preaching to the choir, sweetheart.” You shift off the balls of your feet to your knees, sinking lower, and point at a cubby high above you. “Hand me that other bag. The one with the knife in it.”</p><p>    He does so without comment. The knife and bag get nestled in next to the biocomponent. Found near each other at the same location on the same date. That makes a whole lot more sense than “oh this shit is similar”. Lazy fucks.</p><p>    “You enjoy organizing, Detective?”</p><p>    Connor’s comment breaks you out of your self-satisfied trance. “Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess.” You accept another bag of blue-smeared evidence. “Just nice to make order from chaos, I suppose.”</p><p>    The bag in Connor’s hand gets replaced by a thick stack of business cards, held together by a rubber band. He lifts it up to fill the newly-emptied cubby below the folders. Honestly, it’s probably a good idea he’s handling the higher shelves, because you definitely can’t reach them.</p><p>    “What’s your favorite thing to organize, Detective?”</p><p>    The question catches you off-guard, if only because it’s a weird-ass question. “I dunno.” You grumble, emptying a cubby full of old android instruction manuals. “Organizing is organizing. Just nice to have shit in order. Doesn’t really matter what it is.” You pause to look up at the android looming over you. “That’s a weird question.”</p><p>    “Is it?” He doesn’t meet your gaze. Apparently he’s getting into the organizing, too. Why’s he have to be so <em> cute </em>all the time? Shit.</p><p>    “Yeah.” You whap one of the instruction manuals against his shin. That gets his attention. “Most people don’t ask about what you like to organize.”</p><p>    “I’m not a person.” He bends down to take the stack of instruction manuals. “But I’m flattered to hear you think of me that way.”</p><p>    You squint at him. “Fuck you.”</p><p>    “Later.”</p><p>    “Hey, hey, hey!” You whack his shin again, this time, with your open hand. “That kind of banter is <em> not </em>okay. Christ.”</p><p><em>     Don’t make promises you can’t keep, stupid, sexy machine. </em>Thank God he can’t see the red in your cheeks or the twitching of your lip. You’d never live it down.</p><p>“My apologies, Detective. I assumed it was appropriate, given your earlier conversation with Detective Reed.”</p><p>    “It’s not okay when he does it, either.” You huff. “I let him get away with it ‘cause it’s the closest he’ll ever get to--” <em> Actually fucking me, </em>you complete in your head, but you make the smart decision to bite your damn tongue before you complete the thought.</p><p>    “To?”</p><p>    “C’mon, hand me more evidence.” You whack his leg again. “Banter later.”</p><p>    He raises a brow, but does as you say. “Of course, Detective.”</p><p>    With that situation settled, and his flirtatious <em> “Later.” </em>still floating about in your mind, you get back to task at hand, briefly pausing to check the retrieval date on a stack of criminal records. “What do you like to do for fun then, huh?”</p><p>    Of course, the second after you ask, you realize just how stupid that question is. <em> Androids don’t have hobbies, dummy. </em></p><p>    “I’m… not sure.” Connor replies hesitantly. Even his movements seem to slow as he genuinely contemplates it--or at least, he <em> appears </em>to contemplate it. “I suppose you could say that I find working on the case to be quite pleasurable.”</p><p>    He really needs to forget that word already. You play it off, though. “A workaholic, then. I should have known we’d get along.”</p><p>    “Do we?”</p><p>    “Huh?”</p><p>    You glance up from your half-shuffled papers. He’s regarding you with that inquisitive, eager look again.</p><p>    God. He really <em> wants </em>to be friends with you, doesn’t he?</p><p>    <em> More material for later, </em>your dark side purrs.</p><p>    “Yeah, well enough, I guess.” You grouse, shoving the wad of papers against his knee. He accepts it with one smooth movement. “Tell CyberLife their banter module’s decent enough.”</p><p>    “With all due respect, <em> decent enough </em>is hardly a glowing review, Detective.”</p><p>    You snort and elbow his shin. “I’ll give <em> you </em> a glowing review, you plastic asshole.”</p><p>    He chuckles and--<em> oh. </em> It sounds so-- <em> human. </em>You’re tired of thinking that, but it’s true. The joy on his face looks real. Like he’s really having a good time teasing you. There’s nothing fake about the smile. It’s nostalgic, even.</p><p>    <em> Reminds me of Kent. </em></p><p> The mirth comes crashing down around you. So <em> that’s </em> why this feels so familiar. So endearing. So <em> comforting. </em> This is what you were missing. <em> Who </em>you were missing.</p><p>    Connor, ever-intuitive, picks up on the change right away. “Detective?”</p><p>    Your attention jerks upwards, towards the concerned-looking android and the precariously teetering box slipping over his fingers.</p><p>    “The box!” You yelp, grabbing onto the shelves and trying your damndest to haul yourself to your feet in time.</p><p>    Of course, he catches it, but not before a generous amount of white powder spills in a dramatic <em> puff </em>around his head, shoulders, and upper torso.</p><p>    “Sorry, Detective,” he begins, voice slightly frantic, and for once, you’re glad to hear some emotion besides <em> neutral </em> and <em> playful. </em>“I looked away for a split second. I should have been more careful.”</p><p>    “It’s fine, just a little chalk is all.” You roll your shoulders and stretch your back as you stand. <em> Why </em>the officers had insisted on bagging the entire box of white teacher’s chalk from the crime scene, you don’t know. Not like they were covered in blood or anything. </p><p>    Connor begins dusting himself off, looking mildly disappointed, but still curious. You watch for a few moments as the generous coating of white specks turns into white streaks that grow longer with each movement. His brow furrows, LED cycling yellow for far too long for comfort.</p><p>    You grab his wrist with a sigh. “Stop, you’re just making it worse.” Your other hand slaps down against his chest and gives it a firm <em> rub, </em> taking a good bit of the chalk <em> and </em>your dignity with it. “Just need fingerprints to catch the powder, see?”</p><p>    “I see.”</p><p>    His hand is stiff in your grip. You release it to use both of yours to dust him off.</p><p>    “Sorry about this, Detective.”</p><p>    “It’s fine.” You hum, brushing his shoulders.</p><p>    Oh, it’s <em> more </em> than fine. You hadn’t realized you were searching for an excuse to touch him until now, and hot <em> damn </em> there’s so much of you practically singing with joy just for the opportunity. Not only is he warm, he’s <em> sturdy, </em> like a man who spends <em> just </em>enough time at the gym to see decent results. The crisp fabric of his jacket is impossibly smooth and pert, but when you press your fingers against it, you feel the slight give of synthetic muscle.</p><p>    <em> What I wouldn’t give to feel it without the fabric layer in the way. </em></p><p> That’s a thought, actually, one you can indulge upon because <em> oh, look, </em>there’s chalk all over his neck.</p><p>    “Hold still.” You hope Connor doesn’t read too much into the amusement in your voice. Maybe he’ll interpret it as <em> patronizing </em> or <em> joking </em> and not <em> horny about finally getting to sexually assault your partner. </em></p><p>He obeys, keeping his head still, though his body still follows the soft arcs of that humanlike swaying animation.</p><p>    With a relieved huff, you get straight to business, gingerly touching the pads of your fingertips against the exposed silicone skin at his neck. It feels… real, dammit, how the fuck <em> else </em> did you describe it? Warm? Velvety? Fuzzy? <em> Nice, </em> that horrible voice inside of you chimes. It feels <em> nice. </em></p><p> You indulge yourself in the sensation as you brush the chalk off with small, quick strokes, reaching higher and higher up his neck, then his jawline. You’re so entranced, you don’t even notice you’ve started supporting your smaller frame with your non-dominant hand on his chest. The gentle rhythmic <em> thrumming </em>of his synthetic heart pulses against you. Not exactly real, but comforting enough to lull you into a false state of security.</p><p>    “Almost done, I swear.” You’re practically whispering now, too entranced by the warmth and sensations under your hands to even notice his curious eyes upon you. “You really got this everywhere, shit.”</p><p>    “Sorry, Detective.”</p><p>    <em> Shit. </em> He sounds close. Of course he sounds close, his mouth is like, less than ten inches away from your goddamn head. Blood rushes into your cheeks. <em> Idiot. </em>You swallow the spit pooling under your tongue and reach for the last bit of chalk, a rather chunky fleck sitting just below his CyberLife-designed ear. Your fingers sweep upwards to dislodge it and--</p><p>    <em> “Ah--!” </em></p><p> The absolutely <em> delectable </em> noise that escapes Connor’s throat would be <em> much </em> more satisfying if he hadn’t done it straight into your <em> goddamn ear. </em></p><p>
  <em>     Holy fucking shit. </em>
</p><p> “Holy fucking shit!” You choke out, stumbling backwards, as if he’s just stepped on your toes or vomited on your shirt or <em> Jesus fuck, who programs an android to moan?! </em> “What the fuck was <em> that?! </em>”</p><p>    “I’m sorry to startle you, Detective,” he starts hurriedly, obviously concerned by your reaction. Already, he’s raising his hands in a defensive, or soothing, gesture. “That spot in particular is a bit sensitive.”</p><p>    <em> “Sensitive?” </em> Oh, God, this is <em> definitely </em> awakening something within you. Sensitive. He has <em> sensitive </em>spots. You’re absolutely going to hell now. “I thought-- I thought androids don’t feel pain, or, or get ticklish, or-- you know!”</p><p>    Connor starts to untense a bit, likely in the hopes of calming you down. “Not like humans do, no, but we do have touch receptors to alert us to any damage or potential dangers. The spot you touched is directly above an important biocomponent in my primary processing unit. The sensors at the skin level act as a haptic warning that the physical object may pose a threat to the underlying component.”</p><p>    Not even the cold, scientific explanation of what has just happened is enough to quell the growing heat in your cheeks, neck, and thighs. Christ, you’re practically <em> tingling </em> with excitement, or anxiety, or <em> fear, </em> or <em> something. </em> You’d better get yourself out of this fucking situation before you needed to run home and get a new pair of jeans. <em> Shit. </em></p><p> “Okay, then, guess I’m not gonna touch you there again.” <em> Or anywhere, </em> you think, exhaling hard and heavy as the weight of what you’ve just done settles on your shoulders. Maybe letting that dark part of you take over was a <em> bad </em>fucking idea.</p><p>    “It’s alright.” Connor puts on a friendly smile because of <em> course </em>he fucking does. “I trust you won’t attempt to remove any of my biocomponents while we’re still on the case. You can touch me if you like.”</p><p>    <em> You can touch me if you like. </em></p><p>If you weren’t so sure you’d shatter your hand, you might consider punching him in the goddamn face.</p><p>    <em> You can touch me if you-- </em></p><p> Jesus. For a second, you actually consider it. He <em> does </em>still have chalk around his ear and all over the top of his head. You probably can’t reach the top of his head, but he’ll probably let you dust off his ear.</p><p>    And he’ll probably make that cute sound again.</p><p>    But no. No, you’re not <em> that </em> degenerate. If he was a real, human partner, there’s no <em> way </em> you’d get away with this without either starting something between the two of you, or getting sent straight to Human Resources. It doesn’t <em> matter </em> that he’s staring at you expectantly. It <em> certainly </em> doesn’t matter that he’s not human, because you’re <em> better </em> than that. You’re <em> not </em> some loser androidfucker. You’re <em> not. </em></p><p>And yet…</p><p>    The moment hangs in the air. You need to make a choice. Either indulge your more-than-lewd curiosities, with no repercussions whatsoever, save for your pants, or maintain your dignity and shove the rising desire and shame back down where it came from.</p><p>    In the moment, you don’t think. You know who you are and what you’ll do.</p><p> </p><p>
  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471315/chapters/61785682">&gt;  <em> I mean, he did say I could touch him… What’s the harm? </em></a>
</p><p>
  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471315/chapters/61785748">&gt; <em> Human or not, I’ve got principles, for fuck’s sake! </em></a>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Be sure to click one of the links above to be taken to the corresponding CYOA chapter!</p><p>In an attempt to challenge myself / be as cringe as possible, this is now a semi-CYOA. Make whichever choice your Detective would take, and don't worry about remembering your decisions -- you'll be reminded of them, and which path to take, when we come to the end. :)</p><p>Both paths will always be posted at the same time, so you won't have to wait. Feel free to leave comments here on on the containment fic; I'm just glad ya'll are enjoying it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    In your sleep, acceptance comes so easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Maybe it’s because the horrible dreams from before have been replaced with something much more palatable. No more screams, no more squealing tires, no more dead eyes staring up at you through an opened zipper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    No, you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>better </span>
  </em>
  <span>memories to torment yourself with now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Tonight, you’re in your bedroom, sheets tossed to the floor, the object of your base desires lying in the absolute center of your twin-size mattress. His arms are pulled up behind his head, wrists secured by </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>though you don’t care what. You’re seated squarely above his pelvis, knees wrinkling his disheveled suit jacket as they sink into the mattress below. The soft humming of electric biocomponents shivers at your bare thighs. He’s perfectly warm. Just the way you remember from the day before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He’s clothed, but you’re working on that. Your hands peel apart the central seam of his button-up shirt, pressing the flats of your palms to his too-warm synthetic skin. His lips tense. The tiny movements of his eyes catch your attention as your gaze meets his stare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A devious joy blooms in your throat and spreads into a wide smirk. Your finger traces the line of his collarbone up his neck. He grits his teeth and shuts his eyes, but that’s not what you want. You lift your hand to smooth a thumb over his cheek, counting each and every soft freckle as you bend forward. Down, down, </span>
  <em>
    <span>down, </span>
  </em>
  <span>until your bare chest presses against his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He’s so warm. So </span>
  <em>
    <span>wonderfully </span>
  </em>
  <span>warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Detective.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor whispers, self-restraint constricting every forced-out word. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you find this more pleasurable?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Yes.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You can hear his voice clear as day. He said every one of those words, after all. You remember. Good God, do you remember. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“But I’m far more interested in your pleasure.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your right ring finger reaches for that spot </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>below his ear. A whimper escapes his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Fuck.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You breathe. Warmth pools between your thighs. You can’t help but arch your back, drive the heat </span>
  <em>
    <span>downwards</span>
  </em>
  <span> to press against him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “You… hah!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor squeaks again as you rub your finger against that sweet spot again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You can touch me if you like.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>like. So you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You shift upwards and plant your previously occupied right hand next to his head on the too-plush pillow. Your other hand extends two fingers--index and middle--towards his lips, pressing down, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>inwards. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fingertips slide past perfect teeth to trap the flat of his tongue. Without prompting, he pushes back against you, rolling his tongue around your digits in motions that would </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely </span>
  </em>
  <span>make your knees weak in real life.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Good boy,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you murmur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor moans in response. You know what it means. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Touch me, Detective.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You oblige the request. You’re not the only one with a lewd tongue, after all, and he’s quite busy with your fingers at the moment. That gives you the perfect opportunity to dip your nose down past his jawline to drag your teeth and mouth against his would-be erogenous zone.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Hah--!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He gasps around your fingers. Humid breath tickles the tiny hairs at your wet knuckles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“D-Dehecih, I--!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Did I ask you to stop, Connor?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>He shudders and squirms beneath your weight. After a brief pause, he begins to move his tongue against you again.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Very good.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You nip at his ear, and he squeaks again. No need to make him wait any longer. Still purring at his neck, you shift your right hand downwards, between your slick human skin and his warm synthetic shell, reaching for the false biology your dreaming mind </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>awaits you. As your fingers slide lower, his body tenses, tongue shuddering against your fingers, throat tightening around a held-back moan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>And you’re going to give him what he wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    At last, your fingers brush against--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The </span>
  <em>
    <span><strong>screech</strong> </span>
  </em>
  <span>of your alarm is so loud, you practically jump out of your skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your hand whaps the silence button hard enough to send a shockwave down your forearm. In the eerie quiet that follows, all you’re left with is the sound of your pounding heart. Every inch of you is throbbing, especially a </span>
  <em>
    <span>certain</span>
  </em>
  <span> area in particular. The cheap sheets beneath you are damp with sweat. As if to spite you, the A/C turns on just as you’re catching your breath, chilling the right half of your body as it blasts from the vent high up on the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You huff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Guess that’s how </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>day is starting.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>    A few hours and two Red Bulls later, you find yourself in the driver’s seat of a patrol car, one foot up on the dash, idly typing the last of your notes into a work-issued tablet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective,” Connor begins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I know.” You groan. “Bad posture. I’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He shuts up, thankfully. Honestly, you’re not sure how much of his sweet voice you can tolerate today. Hell, you can’t even bring yourself to call him </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweetheart</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because if he sasses you back in any way, you just </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re going to add whatever he says to the elaborate fantasy your mind’s been constructing in your dreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice </span>
  </em>
  <span>fantasy, you’ll admit. Certainly not one you haven’t had before. It helps that you’ve had some real-life experience trussing up Tinder dates, one of which was </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>vocal about his pleasure, and the one semi-serious boyfriend with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>wonderfully </span>
  </em>
  <span>sensitive hair-trigger. Combine that with the plastic lust coursing through your veins; the piece of shit designer who made Connor look like, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor; </span>
  </em>
  <span>his highly-suggestive quotes, and that sweet, </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful </span>
  </em>
  <span>noise he made yesterday, and you had yourself a recipe for One Incredible Wet Dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Two complications, though. One, he’s your partner, and two, he’s an android. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t like androids, what with their canned phrases and fake enthusiasm, but Connor’s different. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>special, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and admitting that to yourself, even in your own damn head, is fucking embarrassing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    So, you focus on your work. Luckily, there’s enough of that to go around today. You’ve spent the morning driving all over the damn city, conducting interviews and rummaging through people’s recyclables to see if you can find any clues pointing to why androids go deviant. It would be really helpful if you could actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>find </span>
  </em>
  <span>another deviant, because today, all you’ve found is some weird scrawlings on the wall, a portrait of some religious figure done in </span>
  <em>
    <span>peanut butter, </span>
  </em>
  <span>for Christ’s sake, and a handful of former android owners who all danced around the exact reason </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>their androids had gone missing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You didn’t need Connor to tell you what they’d done. Between the evidence and the way their faces twisted around their lies, you knew. Most of these fuckers were either beating or fucking their androids -- or </span>
  <em>
    <span>both. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You knew how you felt about the beatings: if they’re enough of an asshole to beat a humanoid robot, they’re enough of an asshole to beat their kids or wife. Despicable, really. No matter how creepy androids are, you’re not about to straight-up punch one in the </span>
  <span>face</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>No, you’d much rather sit on one’s </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>face.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Therein lay the problem. The android </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuckers, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you can kind of understand. Some androids were attractive. Of course there’ll be a few sick fucks out there who want to put their dick down their android’s pretty little throat. That said, most androids aren’t like Connor. They’re practically braindead. They don’t think. They don’t make their own decisions. They do as they are told, then they wait to be told to do something else. Androids can’t consent. That’s why androidfuckers are creepy.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>What does that say about you, then?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>A defensive voice rises to answer that existential question.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Connor can probably consent.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Can he, though? Every action he takes is a result of some programming. If someone programs an android to say “yes” when you ask for sex, isn’t that kind of like a pimp telling a prostitute she </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to sleep with a guy? That’s not exactly enthusiastic consent, not like the kind that really turns you on. You wouldn’t want to do anything to Connor if he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>it: for ethical </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>horny reasons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You frown and nibble at the fake eraser on your electronic pen. What if he made the </span>
  <em>
    <span>decision </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have sex with you to accomplish his mission? It’d help with android-human bonding, after all. That would be enthusiastic consent, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Really, though, why are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking </span>
  </em>
  <span>about this so fucking much? You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to fuck him. You’ll entertain the idea and grope him with your eyes, sure, but you’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to fuck him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>not.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Detective,” he repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I know, I know.” With a long groan, you pull your leg in towards your chest, then hook it back under the steering wheel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That’s not what I meant, though I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>glad you’re taking care of your posture.” He flashes you that signature smirk that’s getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>far </span>
  </em>
  <span>too endearing for your liking. “Dispatch is asking us to investigate a possible burglary in progress a few blocks down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You exhale through your nose and keep your focus on your tablet. “There’s a reason I turned off the radio, Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “There are no other units in the area, and we are more than equipped to handle a burglary in progress.” He leans forward, raising a brow. “We should head there immediately.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With another heavy huff, you squeeze your eyes shut and slap the tablet down into your lap. “Fine.” You press the ignition button and buckle into your seatbelt. “They say anything else about what’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No, just that a concerned neighbor heard several loud noises from the apartment next door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Christ. Burglary in progress, my ass.” You press play on the audio system and turn your head over your shoulder, preparing to merge into the steady trickle of urban traffic. “Gimme directions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He obliges your request--it really is just a few blocks away. A few right turns to get around one annoying stretch of one-way roads and you’ll be there. No use changing the soundtrack, then, so your quick jaunt begins halfway into your opera playlist; more precisely, a third of the way through Offenbach’s </span>
  <a href="https://youtu.be/sXK3pUdBRGA?t=117">
    <em>
      <span>Les oiseaux dans la charmille </span>
    </em>
  </a>
  <span>aria from the Tales of Hoffman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The irony isn’t lost on you--the song of an automaton whose beauty charms Hoffman into falling head over heels in love with it, thinking it’s human. You know how that act of the opera ends, too: with the man being completely and utterly humiliated in front of his peers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ha, ha, ha! How the bomb bursts! He loved an automaton!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    For now, though, the automaton is singing, and Hoffman and the chorus are entranced. Who wouldn’t love the automaton, hearing her melody, seeing her beauty? Sure, maybe Hoffman could have noticed the inventor winding her up every other chorus, but he didn’t deserve all the ridicule.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Just wait until they make an android production of </span>
  </em>
  <span>that </span>
  <em>
    <span>opera.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You hum along with the melody as you drive. Despite your eyes being focused on the road ahead, you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor’s stare burning holes in the side of your head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For once, it’s your turn to prompt him. “Yes, Connor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Do all humans enjoy singing, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    What a strange question. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A curious automaton. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Depends on the person. I’m a shit singer, but you’re not gonna stop me from getting up during karaoke and belting out some meme shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He pauses for a moment. Finally, he responds, “I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Not the musical sort?”  You glance over at him as traffic slows in front of you. His gaze is cast downwards, hands folded in his lap. Cute, really. “Or is it just opera? Not a lot of people can tolerate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No, it’s alright.” He looks at you and smiles. “I like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You can’t help but smile back. “Good, ‘cause I wasn’t gonna change it.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>    You’re barely a foot into the apartment building and your instinct is already buzzing with dread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    First of all, this place is </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>too nice for a random daytime burglary to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not only do you have to palm-scan your way into the building, but there’s a security desk in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>two-story lobby. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And then there’s the height and design of the building: 25 floors of sleek steel and glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That left one of two options: an overly paranoid neighbor calling in about a resident coming home when they weren’t supposed to be, or some rich motherfucker losing it on their wife, girlfriend, or kids. Dispatch hadn’t specified, but they also hadn’t mentioned their own doubts or opinions, which means it’s more likely to be the latter than the former.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Just your luck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The elevator doors open, and you step out onto the eighth floor. When Connor doesn’t follow, you turn to see why. His eyes are unfocused, his lips slightly parted. His LED cycles a crisp yellow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You good? Dispatch calling in again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Like a snoozing student called out in class, he jerks awake, shaking his head slightly, then giving you his full attention. “Sorry, Detective. I was thinking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Gonna find us a new opera to listen to on the way back?” You joke, nudging his shoulder as he joins you in the hall. “You find a video you like and I’ll put it on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He purses his lips, then smiles. “I’m not sure what I like, but I can find something if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Right. No preferences, no desires. He’s not a person. Eventually, you’ll have your Hoffmann moment of ridicule. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How the bomb bursts! She lusted after an automaton.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your brisk stride quickly takes you to the door of the apartment in question. Time to focus. You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and exhale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Then, you knock. Three times, as is procedure. No response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You knock again. “Detroit Police! Open up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    No response. Great.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Perhaps we should interview the neighbor,” Connor suggests. Not a bad idea, really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Before you can answer him, though, a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>clatter </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the shattering of glass rings out from behind the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You unholster your gun. Your hand tests the door handle-- it’s unlocked. Your gut tells you that’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing. Contemplation turns off, training kicks in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “After me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    No use staying quiet after that racket. You pull down on the handle and throw the door open, leading with your weapon and a razor-sharp eye. A short hallway leading to an open space. Two doors on the right, one closed, one open; one door on the left, open and bleeding light into the dim hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You check the first door--an unassuming closet. “Clear. Take left. I’ve got right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Funny how you don’t think twice about trusting him. Guess that’s experience for you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Down to the next two doors. You feel the android’s back shift against yours when you both turn to clear your assigned rooms. Yours is easy: a small master bath. Nobody hiding behind the door. Nobody hiding behind the shower curtain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Clear,” You call, turning back towards the end of the hallway and what you can now see is a wide, open living room-kitchenette affair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Clear,” Connor calls, emerging into the hall behind you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Luckily, there aren’t any major hiding places in this open-concept room. A quick roundabout of the living room--</span>
  <em>
    <span>couch, cabinets, TV, balcony--</span>
  </em>
  <span>and kitchen</span>
  <em>
    <span>--fridge, pantry, laundry machine--</span>
  </em>
  <span>is all you need to clear the apartment of possible intruders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “All clear.” You lower your weapon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “All clear,” the android repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A long sigh drains the tension from you in one continuous stream. “Catch anything particularly suspicious?” You cast your gaze over your shoulder, holstering your gun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yes, actually.” Connor turns his head towards the hallway. “You’re not going to like it.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just wanted to say thanks for all the kind comments and kudos so far! :) I'm having a lot of fun with this, and it warms my heart to know the rest of ya'll are as horny for androids as our dear Reader.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    Connor is right. You really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The lone resident of the apartment is dead, sprawled out on her back in a pool of sweat, spittle, and water-based lubricant. She’s completely naked, which only makes it easier to see the third-degree burns on her thighs and buttocks. Mauve bruises glow on her cheekbone and around her neck. Her eyes are glassy and her lips are blue. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dark </span>
  </em>
  <span>blue, same color as the flecks of android blood spattered across her breasts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shit.” You swear to cover up the fact that bile is building in your throat. Deep breaths. You’ve seen hundreds of corpses, most in worst shape than this one. This one’s fresh. Still in one piece. Not even bleeding. Her nakedness doesn’t matter. You can handle it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor’s unfazed, unsurprisingly. He gets right to work, first by circling the bed, then by examining the disheveled sheets on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You don’t need to taste the thirium or stare at the melted skin and fat to know exactly what happened here. The woman wanted to fuck an android. Somewhere in the middle of it, the android decided it didn’t like that. The android killed her, then fled. Probably out the open balcony door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shit,” you repeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “There was a struggle,” your partner calls, holding a crescent-shaped piece of what looks like whale blubber between his hands. “The android was bitten.” He sets the evidence down and takes a step back. “The model involved is a housekeeping unit. Neither the standard nor advanced models are equipped or programmed for sexual activities.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You crouch down to investigate a conspicuous bag at the foot of the bed. “Looks like she had the equipment handled.” Though you manage to sound calm, your voice only masks the dread churning in your chest. Upending the bag spills its contents to the floor, revealing a trio of increasingly large dildos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That solves one question,” Connor muses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You swallow your spit and stare at the scene. Someone is dead because they wanted to fuck an android. They forced it to do something it wasn’t programmed to do, and it fought back. Androids can’t consent. You know that full well. It doesn’t stop you from putting yourself in the woman’s shoes.The universe is calling to you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is what happens, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it croons. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is why they can’t be trusted.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your attention jerks to Connor. He’s come towards you, perfectly-detailed face exuding a look of confusion and concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Should I call for another officer to assist us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You squeeze your eyes shut, then open them. “Yeah, get a CSI team out here, and medical for her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He nods, LED spinning yellow. “Do you need to step outside for a moment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    So good at reading people. You appreciate it right now, though. “Yeah. I’ll go check out the living room. You do your thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A few seconds later, you’re wandering into the open-concept space, running your hand over your head with a sigh. Connor’s finishing up his investigation and analysis in the bedroom. For once, you’re glad you’re not there. Usually, the sight of him sticking those fingers in his mouth would get you going, but between the scene back there and the dream from this morning, you’re not sure you’d be able to handle it.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>This hits way too close to home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>For all the sense it makes, the concept of deviants is still so confusing. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>deviants act out violently, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>did. Does going deviant allow androids to break the Laws of Robotics? Is </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>the issue? Would make sense why CyberLife is so damn interested in this, then. Disobeying orders is one thing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>murdering </span>
  </em>
  <span>humans is another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Still, thinking back on all the people you’ve interviewed thus far, it doesn’t seem like any of the violent androids attacked first. In fact, it seems like they were acting in self-defense. This one certainly fit the bill. He was mistreated, he fought back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Killing his owner is a bit much, though. That you’ll admit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You let your thoughts wander as you begin to examine the apartment more closely. The woman has--er, </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>money, from all the paintings on the wall and the fancy, non-IKEA furniture. The coffee table, fashioned from a stone base and a thick glass pane, is covered in magazines. You don’t need to pick one up and read it to see the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Plastic Studs Pounding Muff.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    How Can I Serve You, Master?</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    CYBERLIFE’S HOTTEST FUCKBOYS: DELIVERED STRAIGHT TO YOU!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>One of these magazines is not like the other, though. You brush aside a black-and-neon-pink cover to reveal a plain booklet printed on rough newspaper.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>HK300 Operating Manual.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Whatever gets you off, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You get back to investigating, but really, you’re just killing time until Connor can get into the room and put his tongue on everything. You know what happened here, anyway, so back into your thoughts you go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    So far, you feel like you understand the trigger that makes androids go deviant: some kind of violent abuse. There are way more androids out there being beaten and abused, though. Not all of them have gone deviant. There’s got to be something </span>
  <em>
    <span>else </span>
  </em>
  <span>going on too, then. Some kind of virus? Chain email going around, telling androids to rise up against their masters? Random signal coming from a Russian low-Earth satellite?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    And what if the trigger </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>violence, but something else? What if those androids were deviant </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>the violence happened, and their reaction was the only thing that tipped their owner off? Could that mean that </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>androids eventually go deviant after a while, and the police only find out about the ones with shithead owners?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Does that mean there are </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy </span>
  </em>
  <span>deviants out there that </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>run away from home? What does that look like? If their owners aren’t turning them in for being “broken”, then are they just continuing to do their owners’ bidding? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The more you think about it, the more you wonder why the local PD is involved, and not the goddamn FBI. The likely answer is </span>
  <em>
    <span>CyberLife doesn’t want to get involved with the feds, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and unfortunately, you can empathize with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Still doesn’t make you any happier about having to solve this huge case by yourself--or, more accurately, standing around, lusting after CyberLife’s prototype android while </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>solves the case by himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Sighing, you make your way out of the living room and into the kitchen, though the hardwood flooring throughout the apartment doesn’t make it easy to tell where one room ends and the other begins. The counters, stove, and sink are impossibly clean. Seems the housekeeping android was still doing his job up until this morning. A droplet of water falling from the sink catches your eye, and you step forward to examine. The sink and surrounding countertop are wet, smelling faintly of dish soap and something metallic. The faintest blue wisp spins in a pool of lukewarm water on chrome. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thirium.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Found more blue blood over here, Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Within seconds of your call, the android is walking into the kitchen, unflinching gaze skittering over the angles and curves of the area. “There’s small droplets all over the countertop, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Same android?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He steps past you and reaches two fingers into the sink, then brings them to his tongue. You’re in no mood to be excited by it. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Least we’re only dealing with one, then, huh?” You plant your hands on your hips. “Didn’t find much else looking around. Woman was clearly into androids. What’d your fancy sensors find out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “She passed away less than fifteen minutes ago. We may have just missed the deviant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shit,” you swear. “Just our luck. At least we got a model and serial number this ti--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Something moves under the sink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Both of you freeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You don’t need eye contact to know what to do next. You draw your firearm. Connor takes a step back from the sink and crouches down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “One.” You whisper, too soft for human ears, but you trust Connor hears. “Two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The cabinet under the sink bursts open with enough force to knock one of the doors off the hinges. Something </span>
  <em>
    <span>big </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>half-naked </span>
  </em>
  <span>springs onto all fours and tackles Connor to the ground. Before you have a chance to shoot, the two are entangled in a mass of writhing bionic limbs and frenzied blows. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>No clear shot. Verbal warning.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Freeze, or I’ll shoot!” Elementary, but it should get the point across.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The deviant clocks Connor across the face with an elbow. With the other android temporarily stunned, it hops back onto all fours, then sprints towards you.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Connor’s too close. No clear shot. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>At the last moment, it jolts to your left. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The door to the balcony! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Instinct built from years of training folds your body into a defensive stance. The android takes another step. You push off your right foot to lunge forward, catching the deviant’s knee with your own. As it careens off-balance, your waiting arm hooks around its elbow and yanks it towards the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’ve forgotten something important, though. Androids are fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>heavy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Instead of flipping to the ground, the deviant stumbles forward, half-dragging you along with it. You refuse to give up. You kick yourself upright, shove your gun into the magnetic holster, and snatch at the collar of the android’s uniform. You do what you can to slow it by latching on--if you can hold the damn thing back for a few precious seconds, your partner will be there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor’s hand grabs the android’s free arm, just as you’d hoped. You let go and roll to the floor. It only takes a second for you to regain your bearings, and you’re back on your feet, dashing to block the space between the sparring androids and the half-open balcony door. As you draw your weapon again, you get a moment to watch them go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    In that moment, you realize: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d be dead if Connor weren’t here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You ready your finger by the trigger. The deviant swings at Connor. Connor dodges and delivers a blow to the android’s stomach. It staggers away from him, towards you. When Connor lunges forward again, the deviant turns and runs for the balcony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Straight into your sights.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Clear shot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Your index finger jerks back onto the trigger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The gunshot catches the deviant in the thigh, spraying silicone and thirium across the sleek floorboards. That doesn’t stop it from reaching you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Steel and plastic collide with your much smaller frame, arms thrust outwards to push you aside.You hook your leg out to trip the ankle of its wounded limb. When it stumbles, however, it pivots around its foot, its hand wraps around your forearm, jerking it forward and forcing the gun to fall from your loosened grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android’s body </span>
  <em>
    <span>thunks </span>
  </em>
  <span>against the retaining wall of the balcony. A soft breeze fills your nose with fresh air. You see Connor dart for the gun--just before the android hoists you to your feet by the wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Stop!” Its voice--</span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> voice--is strained with frantic fear. The kind of fear that gets innocent people </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He grabs you from behind, by the collar of your jacket, and tugs you against the balcony wall. “Let me go, or I’ll toss her over!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor levels the gun faster than is humanly possible. You see him drop into position--slightly crouched, expression determined, posture still--and feel a sudden calm. He’ll hit the shot. You trust him one hundred percent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The shot doesn’t come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His moment of hesitation bolsters the deviant’s courage. It releases its grip on you, then shoves you forward with every ounce of strength it’s got. You stumble onto your hands and knees, then roll to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“No!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>It’s too late. The deviant vaults over the balcony railing and disappears from view. A few long seconds later, as Connor rushes forward, you hear the distinct </span>
  <em>
    <span>crunch </span>
  </em>
  <span>of something heavy and metallic hitting the pavement eight stories below.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Panting, you use your elbow to push yourself up into a sitting position. “Fuck.” You huff. “Thing was--fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>heavy.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It’s my fault.” Connor stares out over the balcony ledge. “I should have been faster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You should’ve… shot the fucker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He looks over his shoulder. The disappointment on his face is palpable, even from six feet away. “I couldn’t get a clear shot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That’s bullshit.” You lean backwards onto your right hand and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wince. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Shit! God fucking--</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Your wrist practically crumples under the stabbing pain that shoots up your hand. You pull it into your chest for a rudimentary inspection: not broken, thank Christ. It feels stiff, though, like a wrenched muscle, or a rolled ankle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A shadow in your vision catches your attention. Connor’s dropping to a knee before you, reaching for your tender wrist. “Are you injured?” He asks, as if he can’t fucking tell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m fine,” you answer. “Probably just twisted my wrist when it grabbed me. Don’t need to call medical or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The damn android smooths his hand over the soft underbelly of your forearm, gently lifting it into his grasp. “It doesn’t look like you’ve torn any ligaments. It’s likely a light sprain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Jesus.” You’re not sure if that’s in response to the sudden medical examination or the touch of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>very soft hand </span>
  </em>
  <span>on your </span>
  <em>
    <span>very sensitive arm. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“What, you got X-ray vision or some shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Not exactly,” he explains. “I have a few medical protocols I can use to assess when fellow officers or civilians are injured.” His hand sets your wrist back into your palm. “Just a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He stands and walks off towards the kitchen. You take the moment to jump to your feet and take a look at the carnage outside. Sure enough, a small crowd is gathering, though luckily, the first round of backup’s arrived, too. One officer on the ground catches your eye and waves, then reaches for her radio.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Everything alright up there, Pumpkin?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Her voice buzzes at your waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It takes you a moment of fumbling, but you manage to respond, throbbing wrist and all. “Area’s clear. Thing practically broke my damn arm trying to get off the balcony, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “You need medical?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Nah.” You wave your hand dismissively. “Let medical handle the victim instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Shit. Right.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You peek over your shoulder to see Connor waiting with a roll of fabric and a wooden spoon. Fuck, he’s actually going to patch you up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Catch up with you in a sec. Don’t let anyone touch that android,” you call into the radio, shuffling back towards the worrywart android. “Connor, I’m fine, really. Medical’s gonna be here in like, five minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “And you told them not to help you,” he retorts, giving you a stern look. “Sit down on the couch, please, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    After watching him wrestle that deviant, you’re not about to argue with him. So, with another one of your signature huffs, you collapse into the dead woman’s couch and lift your swollen wrist for the android to examine. He presses the handle of the spoon to the opposite side of your wrist, then begins to wrap it to your forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re more interested in looking at his face than his work. This time, though, your stare is looking for injuries, not new facial features to fantasize about. He looks no worse for wear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If the deviant had hurt his pretty face, you might’ve had to throw it off the damn balcony yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yes, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He’s getting way too good about noticing your stare.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Something to watch out for in the future, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “They just program you to do everything, Connor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Not everything,” he explains. “Just information that would help me accomplish my mission.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “So no cooking or cleaning.” Your eyes flicker towards the pile of android porn on the coffee table. “Or seduction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Actually,” his voice takes on a hint of </span>
  <em>
    <span>smarm. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“While it’s certainly not a priority method, seduction for the purpose of obtaining critical information from a target </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>within my protocols.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You don’t bother hiding the shock on your face. “You’re not serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I am. The modules were created for companionship android models, but they required little adjustment for me to utilize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shit.” You feel that warmth between your legs again just </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking </span>
  </em>
  <span>about what that meant. You’ve never seen what a sexbot can do, but you’d pay good money to see Connor’s attempts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not that he hasn’t been successfully seducing me this entire fucking time, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. “That explains some of your banter, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Was it obvious?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Yes. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Not really,” you scoff. Feeling particularly honest, you add, “Man, I shouldn’t have asked. Now I’m curious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “About the seduction module?” He ties off the fabric near your elbow and leans back. “We have a few minutes before the additional officers arrive. I can give you a demonstration, if you’d like.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>A demonstration.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Jesus Christ.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You want to see it. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to see it now. When are you going to get another chance? Never, that’s when. Your heart’s pounding, as if </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouting </span>
  </em>
  <span>at you to do it. Screw the shame you’ll feel later. Three minutes won’t kill you </span>
  <em>
    <span>or </span>
  </em>
  <span>your pride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Then again, if Connor’s estimates are off, you run a high risk of medical, or worse, officers who know your face, walking in on you enjoying whatever dirty nonsense CyberLife’s programmed into their androids. That’s not to mention the fact that you’re at a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>crime </span>
  </em>
  <span>scene, and a woman is </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead </span>
  </em>
  <span>not fifty feet from where you’re sitting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Still...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The opportunity’s so good. Or is it? You’re not sure. At the very least, you know what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471315/chapters/61970926">
      <span>&gt; I mean, he </span>
      <span>did </span>
      <span>offer. I’d be stupid to pass up the opportunity...</span>
    </a>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
    <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471315/chapters/61970962#workskin">
      <span>&gt; This is </span>
      <span>not </span>
      <span>the time or place for this kind of shit. </span>
      <span>Later.</span>
    </a>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(Be sure to choose one of the choices at the end before proceeding to the next chapter in this fic! :) )</p><p>Getting into the meat of the Plot. (There's plot? What?) Thanks again for all the sweet comments, keep them coming. It fuels my horny androidfucker brain.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    You’ve never gotten used to the monotony that crept in after the crime or incident was said and done. Car chases and violent stand-offs exploded in a burst of action and adrenaline, then smoked and simmered to a burning husk of interviews, interrogations, paperwork, and bureaucracy. If CSI: Detroit spent as much time showing </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>side of law enforcement as it did crazy fight scenes and intense investigations, you doubt anyone would even consider joining the force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The day’s events are following the same pattern. Monotony set in quickly after the showdown and suicide. Medical took photos of the body, then hauled it away. CSI dusted every surface for fingerprints and thirium, despite Connor’s insistence it was wholly unnecessary. The landlord and a gaggle of neighbors stuck their nosy heads into the hallway, watching as each part of the investigation arrived, dissected the scene, and departed. Eventually, that group included the two of you, as you headed back to organize evidence and begin the slog of paperwork that came with these “exciting” events.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Of course, the paperwork would go faster if your right hand wasn’t totally immobilized. The station medical team took a look at it and, like Connor, had determined it to be a light sprain. Keep it immobilized through the night, then ice it through the week. The soft brace they’ve caged your hand in is less than comfortable, though, and it’s not sturdy enough to keep you from accidentally wrenching it ten times an hour.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>All the more reason to keep Connor close next time we’re tracking down deviants, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. As capable as you consider yourself, after what happened today, you’ll be the first to admit you’re no match for a deviant who wants you dead. Good fucking thing you trust Connor, then, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>half that trust is strung up in that never-ending lust for his freakishly good looks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glance up at him from the growing mess of papers on your desk. He’s still staring at his terminal, hands in his lap, but you can see he’s furiously entering in text on-screen. It’s nice having an android to help with all the formal reports, especially one as advanced as Connor. He’s as meticulously organized as you are, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>he can get it done in half the time it takes you--though right now, it’s more like a fourth of the time, thanks to your shitty human wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That fact adds another item to your list of things to feel guilty about. He’d saved your life </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>dressed up your hand, but you couldn’t help but make things awkward between the two of you. If you’d been smart, you would have shut up about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>seduction module </span>
  </em>
  <span>entirely and changed the goddamn subject. Instead, you had to open your mouth and ruin the good thing you had going between you.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>I have to make it up to him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If only for my own fucking sanity.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>How do you patch things up with an android, though? If he were human, you’d probably buy him a coffee, or take him out to lunch, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but of course, he doesn’t eat. That means you owe him some other kind of present, but again, what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>do you give an android, particularly one that doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That leaves </span>
  <em>
    <span>apologizing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which you’re not too proud to do, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>can’t do it in front of the whole damn office. It’s bad enough that you’re the office spectacle with an android partner. It’ll be even worse if they hear you going </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey, sorry I freaked out on you about your seduction module. I’m too horny to stop myself from acting the fool in front of you. No hard feelings, except for mine, I guess. Ha ha.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You keep your distracted stare focused on Connor’s perfect face. How </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>he want you to apologize, </span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wanted anything at all? Technically, he wants to be a good partner to you. That means maintaining a good relationship, which means apologizing when necessary. You can apologize, then. Maybe even get him a little something he likes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>there’s actually something he likes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Oh. There </span>
  </em>
  <span>is, </span>
  <em>
    <span>though.</span>
  </em>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It’s probably the cringiest thing you’ve done since junior year of high school, but that doesn’t stop you from doing it. At the very least, you know it’ll work. Pride and dignity be damned. You might as well give up on them now, considering the content of your thoughts towards this particular android.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never mind the amount of effort you’ve put in to make sure that nobody you know is going to see what you’re about to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s long past sunset, and most of the daytime shift has been replaced by the next shift. You know these guys well enough, but not enough to be embarrassed about fraternizing with your android partner. Even if they </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to pick a bone with you later, you’re never on the same shift as them, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>there. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You’ve meticulously planned out your route, too. Not because you’re nervous or anything, but because you want things to go </span>
  <em>
    <span>smoothly. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You wait until just past seven, a little later than you usually leave. You turn off your terminal, stuff your phone into your bag, drink the last dregs of your fourth Red Bull and toss the empty can in the box beneath your desk. With that settled, you shrug your bag over your shoulder, adjust your jacket, and walk over towards Connor’s desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes flutter open as you approach; he’d been </span>
  <em>
    <span>making reports </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>performing necessary calibrations </span>
  </em>
  <span>or whatever he does when he’s ‘sleeping’ on the job. His neutral expression brightens when your eyes make contact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heading home, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Long day, all that.” You take a deep breath and let it out in a groan. “Might take a bath or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds like a good idea.” He nods to your wrist. “Be sure to keep your right arm elevated when you go to sleep tonight. It will help with the swelling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Dad.” You scoff, planting a hand on your hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought your preferred nickname for me was ‘Sweetheart’, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You squint at him and ignore the blood rushing to your face. “Shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Great. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So much for your plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Here goes nothing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I dunno if you’re gonna be busy tonight or anything,” you begin, tearing your eyes from him as you thrust a few fingers into the outer pocket of your bag, “but if you have a sec, listen to this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Having retrieved your gift--a bright-red USB 5.0 stick--you hold out your palm and offer it to your partner. He takes it without hesitation, setting it on the desk before him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Thank you, Detective.” Connor’s voice takes on a bit more warmth. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “The Tales of Hoffmann. The opera we were listening to in the car earlier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He stares down at the USB stick, taking it between his fingers. A glimmer of confusion filters into his expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You force out additional explanation. “You know, you said you liked it.” Your voice drops a few decibels lower. “Figure you can listen to the rest and see if you like that, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Something clicks for him--or at least, that’s what it </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks </span>
  </em>
  <span>like, because his LED goes from yellow to blue, and the confusion on his face is replaced with the eagerness you were missing before. “Thank you, Detective. I’ll give it a listen tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Good.” Something feels awkward about just leaving it there, so you add, “Just have a little more respect for yourself, okay? Make your own choices and shit. You know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He raises a brow. “Are you suggesting I should become a deviant, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shit.” Your expression droops. “I am, aren’t I.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That would certainly be counterintuitive to our investigation.” He draws a hand to his chin and feigns deep thought. “Though I suppose it would answer the question as to </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>androids go deviant. Overly sympathetic partners.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fucking smart-ass.” You laugh. Without thinking, you reach out and plant your hand atop his head. Your fingers lace into his hair--which is </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>softer than you’d anticipated--and give it a hearty ruffle. It’s a habit you fell into when Kent was giving you shit, a habit that’s apparently going to get you </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>your oversized libido into a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuckton </span>
  </em>
  <span>of trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor pauses at the sudden physical contact. He almost looks genuinely unsure of how to react. A moment later, the hesitation is gone, and he’s chuckling as his head gently leans into your touch. “Just another complaint for you to issue to CyberLife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “For real.” You withdraw your hand, though not without some complaining from the horndog living inside of you. “Have a good night, Connor. Tell me what you think of that tomorrow morning, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, Detective. Good night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You nod, then turn towards the hallway leading to the back exit. That went well. Better than well, really. You improvised, tried something embarrassing, and it all worked out. No more guilt. Well, no more guilt about hurting Connor’s feelings, at least. You’re definitely going to feel guilty about the dreams you’re bound to encounter tonight, but that’s a problem for </span>
  <em>
    <span>future </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Though apparently, not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>problem you’re going to have tonight. Not three steps down the hallway, and someone falls into step with you. Someone you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>hope isn’t going to make a comment about what you just did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Stop me if I’m wrong, Pumpkin, but did you just give the plastic prick a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mixtape?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He snorts. “What year is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Gavin.” You don’t even bother making eye contact. If you saw the stupid smirk on his face, you might feel like punching it off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your stern tone of voice doesn’t stop him in the slightest. “Thought you were smarter than this, Pumpkin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>of all people should know that thing is dangerous.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Strike one.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You finally humor Gavin with a withering look. “Piss off, Gavin. I’m not in the mood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Bullshit.” His volume drops from </span>
  <em>
    <span>playful announcement </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stern warning. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Seriously, what do you think it’s gonna do with that shit? Listen to it? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Appreciate music? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pumpkin, it’s a machine. You know it doesn’t give a shit about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Thanks for the lecture.” The back door’s so close. Only a few more seconds of this shit, and you’re free. “I’ll keep it in mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Before you can reach for the handle, Gavin steps between you and the exit. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Strike two.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>If you weren’t so pissed off, you might’ve noticed how deathly serious Gavin looks right now. “I’m trying to look out for you, idiot.” He leans in close, voice falling to a hissed-out whisper. “You know that thing would push you in front of a bullet to save itself, right? It doesn’t give a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>about people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s your turn to lean in and whisper menacingly. “Move, or I’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>make </span>
  </em>
  <span>you move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What, did I strike a nerve, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Detective?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He growls, doubling down. “Is that how you got hurt today, huh? Tell me, what would your </span>
  <em>
    <span>brother </span>
  </em>
  <span>think about--”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Strike three.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You grab Gavin by the collar mid-sentence and thrust his back into the metal door behind him. It doesn’t wipe the aggressive scowl off his face. You can feel how hard he’s breathing by the motion of his chest at your tensed forearms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Don’t you </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>talk to me about my brother. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You think I don’t know? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gavin. Next time you do, I will beat the fucking daylights out of you.” You pause to suck a breath through your clenched teeth. “Now get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> out of my way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You release your grip. To his credit, he moves to the side, though he maintains the shit-eating grin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You huff in his direction, then jerk the handle and shove your way out the back door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Have a good night, Detective.” He calls out after you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You most certainly will </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Extremely dubious android consent in a fantasy sex scene.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    You like to think you handle stress well. Being a police officer, and then a detective, you’ve experienced more than your fair share of stressful situations. You’ve seen people die, strangers </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>loved ones. You’ve watched buildings explode and fires consume city blocks. You’ve been screamed at, threatened, hell, even shot at. No matter what, though, you always bounced back. A little self-care was needed, sure, but it didn’t take much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re not surprised, then, that you feel the overwhelming need to be alone the next morning. Between the crime scene, your close call, your injury, and all the shit that went down between you, your partner, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>he-who-shall-not-be-named, </span>
  </em>
  <span>your stress levels are at a monthly high, and as pleasant as some of your colleagues are, you find it’s much quicker for you to destress when nobody’s around.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Maybe because I feel like I can be myself, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The evidence locker is your go-to place for stress relief. Nobody can get in without announcing themselves with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>beep </span>
  </em>
  <span>at the door, though it’s doubtful they’d even come to bother you without good reason. You’ve worked here long enough that people know not to interrupt when you hole up in the evidence locker for an hour or two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’ve been in here for about thirty minutes now, and already you’re starting to feel much calmer. Nothing better than standing in the company of half-bloody bags of evidence and piles of paperwork. This morning, though, you’ve got a brand-new addition to the evidence locker: the remnants of the suicidal android from yesterday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His head, shoulders, and upper half of his torso are intact, but everything else is missing. No limbs, no stomach, just frayed wires and chipped plastic. His silicone skin is still engaged, and his eyes are a dead white, both of which give him the eerie appearance of a half-dismembered human corpse.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>In the end, it’s just a machine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You fold your arms across your chest and stare at its blank face. It doesn’t look like much now, but you remember what it </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>been like. Fast and heavy as shit, like a two-ton bat out of hell. Frantic to get away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Terrified. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You heard the fear in its voice. That was no glitch. The damn thing was scared to death--quite literally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You start to compile a list of facts in your head. Deviants feel emotions, like fear and anger. Deviants don’t want to be shut down permanently. Deviants don’t follow their original protocols. Somehow, their programming </span>
  <em>
    <span>changes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and they begin to behave differently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Almost like they’re alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It sounds ridiculous, but the more you think about it, the more it starts to make sense. That’s why they all react differently. Some get violent. Some run away. Some might even stay with their owners, if they like them well enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The real question is why only </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>androids go deviant, while most of them don’t. Is it a matter of who they come into contact with, or base intelligence? Are ‘smarter’ or ‘more advanced’ androids more susceptible to going deviant, then?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You have too many questions, and not enough answers. Once again, you’re wondering </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>the PD is handling something this big, and not the FBI, and you have to answer your own fucking question again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>CyberLife doesn’t like the Feds, and they need a babysitter for their state-of-the-art android detective.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>    That thought ticks you off for some reason. Maybe it’s the word </span><em><span>babysitter, </span></em><span>because really, you aren’t. You’re not even real partners. Your dynamic is more of </span><em><span>a</span></em> <em><span>competent android detective </span></em><span>and </span><em><span>a literal garbage can. </span></em><span>He does most of the legwork. You do most of the </span><em><span>staring at the state-of-the-art android detective’s ass.</span></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    God, some fucking use I am on this case.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    A gentle knock at the glass jerks your attention away from your depressing state of affairs and towards the door to the evidence locker. Your would-be partner is standing there, gently waving, then pointing to the electronic lock. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Speak of the devil.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You cross the small room to beep him in. “What’s up?” You rasp. Fuck, the air is </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>too dry in here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I hadn’t heard from you in a while, so I came to see if everything is alright.” Connor looks over your shoulder to the rack of evidence. “May I join you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yeah, sure.” You exhale, stepping aside so he can do just that. “Any news from upstairs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Not in particular, no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Just worried about me, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You could say that.” He shoots you a playful glance and smiles. “I assume, then, that the evidence hasn’t tried to attack you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “If only.” You laugh, shuffling back to stand before the shelves of evidence once more. “Nope, nothing interesting going on down here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You fold your arms again as Connor joins you at your side. A quick glance in his direction confirms he’s staring at the evidence, not you. You’re disgusted by how relieved that makes you feel. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The hot robot isn’t looking at you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>How pathetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I heard your argument with Gavin last night, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your jaw tightens. “Great.” You grumble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He waits a moment to respond. “May I make a request?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Please, no. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Depends on the request.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “If you decide to beat the fucking daylights out of Gavin, please be sure to invite me, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It takes a moment for you to wrap your head around what he’s just said. When you finally do, your traitorous mouth spreads open in a wide, goofy smile. “Sweetheart, I would pay for a front-row seat at that boxing match.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m sure you would.” He turns his head to grin at you, too. “But who would you bet on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Please, as if Gavin has a chance.” You snort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You never know. He could get the better of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You chuckle, then lean back against the kiosk in the middle of the room. You want to be angry about how fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>easily </span>
  </em>
  <span>he can settle you down, but you’re too damn entertained by the image of Connor wiping the floor with Gavin.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You stand there in silence for a little while, listening to the buzz of electric lights and the quiet hum of the HVAC system.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I listened to the Tales of Hoffman last night.” He offers. “I liked it. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Hm.” You feel his eager gaze on your cheek, but don’t turn to meet it. “So you’re allowed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>things, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I think so. I can’t quite explain it, but… I liked it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, good.” You shift against the kiosk and sigh. “Glad I didn’t make a total fool out of myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Detective,” he starts slowly, almost hesitantly, “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I want you to know that I like working with you very much.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Sweetheart, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m already taking it the wrong way.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    For once, though, it’s your chest that hurts, not your groin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Thanks.” You murmur through the soup of emotion churning in your throat. “You’re not half bad, yourself. You kind of remind me of…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The soup turns to sludge, choking off your answer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of my brother? An unfeeling android, making decisions based on probability and statistics, reminds me of the brother that was killed by just that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The broken android on the wall looms over you, exerting an emotional gravity on your thoughts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a machine. It doesn’t give a shit about you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Whatever Connor’s saying, it’s all out of a programmed drive to get you to like him, so you work better together, so you won’t get in his way while he figures out a problem that will cost CyberLife a fuckton of money. His banter isn’t friendly or flirtatious. It’s not personal. It doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    If anything, it means he doesn’t really care.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Never mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You know he’s looking at you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Studying </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to figure out </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>you didn’t finish your sentence. Analyzing your facial data to determine if prying further would help or harm your android-human relations. It must come back in favor of </span>
  <em>
    <span>harm, </span>
  </em>
  <span>because he turns away without saying anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Funnily enough, it’s the horndog inside of you that starts the argument in his stead. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s a prototype, after all. Who’s to say he </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>legitimately like things, or have preferences? Maybe it’s some new CyberLife deal to make androids work better with humans. Let them develop a sense of self.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>What good was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sense of self </span>
  </em>
  <span>when they just needed to follow instructions, or in Connor’s case, accomplish a mission? Who would give an android the ability to appreciate music or develop preferences for people or things when it might actively hinder them?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>The same fucked-up programmers that made him look like </span>
  </em>
  <span>that</span>
  <em>
    <span>, dumbass.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>That line of thinking brings something to the forefront of your mind. You shift forward and fold your arms across your chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Why didn’t you shoot that deviant, Connor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “At the apartment?” He asks. “I couldn’t get a clear shot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That’s bullshit.” Your gaze jerks towards him. “I know for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fact </span>
  </em>
  <span>you could’ve hit that shot. It was holding me to the side. Not only that, but it was injured and leaking thirium all over the damn place. You could have made that shot, Connor. Why didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor turns away from you. It’s hard to read his expression from the side, especially when you can’t see the glow of his LED. His eyes flicker with that too-human animation, but something’s off. Almost like he’s really considering your question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m not sure.” His voice doesn’t sound hesitant, but you pick up on it all the same. “Maybe I made a mistake.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Androids aren’t supposed to make mistakes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And you’re not supposed to make mistakes with androids.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Without missing a beat, the gremlin inside of you adds: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Unless that mistake involves riding him like the prettiest pony at the state fair.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>The thought makes you scoff as you hold back a laugh. Connor looks back in your direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Penny for your thoughts, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh, that thought’s going to cost you a </span>
  <em>
    <span>whole </span>
  </em>
  <span>lot more than a penny, Sweetheart.” You raise a hand to clap him on the shoulder. This time, you allow yourself to indulge in a little squeeze. “C’mon, let’s get back upstairs.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>    As always, it starts with thinking about work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s one in the morning. You’d rather be asleep right now, but some fuckwit and their souped-up exhaust decided to drag race down your street, so now you’re awake and thinking about androids.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Deviancy simulates emotions. How does a programming bug cause that? </span>
  </em>
  <span>It doesn’t. You’re more and more sure that it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>deliberately </span>
  </em>
  <span>programmed in. By who, for what cause, you’re still unsure. But someone out there--either at CyberLife </span>
  <em>
    <span>or </span>
  </em>
  <span>some black hat hacker in his mom’s basement--decided it would be fun for machines to have feelings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There’s a part of you that agrees, but you ignore it for now. If deviancy is getting more and more common, that could have real consequences for the world at large. Most menial labor is done by androids now. If every android picking strawberries and harvesting corn decides they don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>the way they’re being treated, then the economy is </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked. </span>
  </em>
  <span>For all the complaining those middle-aged fuckers like to do about </span>
  <em>
    <span>robots stealing our jobs, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they’d probably turn up their noses at the thought of doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual </span>
  </em>
  <span>physical labor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    So stopping deviancy from spreading is important. Philosophers and techno geeks can argue the ethics of it later, but for now, maintaining the status quo should be priority. That’s why CyberLife sent Connor. Get to the bottom of things, get control of the situation.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>I’d like to get control of Connor’s situation, if you know what I mean.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You shove that thought aside, but linger on Connor’s actions the day before, when the frightened deviant grabbed you by the wrist and made that threat. It wouldn’t have been able to toss you, you’re pretty sure. If it had tried, you would have grabbed the ledge, or fallen down to the next balcony below. You would’ve been fine. Loathe as you are to admit it, Connor’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>analysis </span>
  </em>
  <span>should have told him you’d be fine.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>But Connor chose not to shoot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You think back on your conversation in the evidence locker. That hesitant </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You bite your lip. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe I made a mistake.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    I wouldn’t mind making a mistake with you, Sweetheart.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Just like that, the horndog rises within you and assumes control of your thoughts. Not like you’re about to stop it. You’ve accepted your thoughts and feelings about your sexy partner, and your apartment is your safe space. It’s okay to fantasize, as long as you keep it </span>
  <em>
    <span>here </span>
  </em>
  <span>and not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>office.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    He’s allowed to like things.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Your hand idly gropes at one breast through your oversized T-shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>I like working with you very much, Detective.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You bet he does. You bet he’d like it a lot more if you were allowed to drag him into bed with you. He’s gotta have more </span>
  <em>
    <span>sensitive </span>
  </em>
  <span>areas than just the one. You’d enjoy finding each and every one.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>You can touch me if you like.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You think back on the eagerness in his eyes. He’d want to please you. You’d let him. Sweet Jesus, you’d let him. You could have hopped up on that kiosk in the evidence room and spread your legs, and he would have eagerly kneeled down between them to </span>
  <em>
    <span>serve </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This is happening, apparently. You lick your lips, then roll over towards the drawer at the bottom of your bedside table. It only takes you a second to retrieve Old Faithful, your beloved Hitachi Miracle Wand. It’s about the only thing that’ll get the job done for you nowadays. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The shit I have to put up with, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, switching it on and wrestling it into your half-restrained hand. The brace makes it awkward, but you can work around it. Knowing how pent-up you’ve been the last few days, this shouldn’t take long--so you shove the head of the wand between your legs and press it against the curve of your sex through your underwear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The idea of him </span>
  <em>
    <span>serving </span>
  </em>
  <span>you is great, but you’ve got more memories to focus on tonight. One that’s particularly tantalizing is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hesitation </span>
  </em>
  <span>you saw in the evidence room. He’d seemed so unsure of himself. Like he was confused about his own protocols, his own wants and desires.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Wants and desires he’s not supposed to have.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>whole </span>
  </em>
  <span>new idea.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Would Connor be ashamed of himself for feeling desire?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You could see it now. The same fantasy from the night before, your cute android partner, sprawled out on the bed, wrists restrained, waist pinned beneath your small frame, cheeks red with simulated blush, dry breath carrying the scent of plastic and metal. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Detective,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d gasp, barely able to meet your predatory gaze. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Please, I--I don’t know if this is right.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “But you told me you </span>
  </em>
  <span>liked </span>
  <em>
    <span>this,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’d croon. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you want me to touch you there again?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>He’d hesitate. He’d bite his lip. His eyes would look anywhere but yours. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, but--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Your fingers cut him off by wrapping around the head of his artificial cock. The sound that escapes his throat makes you shiver, even in real life. Your thumb fumbles on the wand slider, clicking it up a notch.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“De--Detective!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>His voice cracks, static crackling in his throat, and it’s soon followed by a moan that stutters higher and higher.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Does it feel good, Connor?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your grip tenses around him. Another moan answers your question for you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you want more?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “I-- I don’t--” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He whines as you slide your hand down, then up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes--yes, Detective.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Just as you’re starting to get into a good rhythm, your wrist twinges, and the wand head slips from your sweet spot. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You grit your teeth and nestle back into the mattress, spreading your legs wider and hoping that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>time, you can at least get your finicky genitals </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>hand to cooperate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Right. Back to the fantasy. Your hand’s on his dick, and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to continue. Okay. Deep breath. What next? You’d probably want to tease him more, </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>if he can’t stop you with his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Your thighs squeeze tight around the vibrating head.</span>
  <em>
    <span> You could use your mouth.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>He’d have to watch, too, as you trailed your hands </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>tongue down his torso. Maybe you’ll find another sensitive spot along the way. If he’s got a seduction module, then maybe it’d be his nipples. You imagine the delightful sound he might make if you wrapped your lips around one--or better, let it get caught between your teeth. Would his eyes roll back in his head? Would he </span>
  <em>
    <span>squirm?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Detective--!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He gasps. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Please, Detective, I-- I want--!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Use your words, Connor.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You purr around a mouthful of sensitive skin. Your sex twitches against the vibrator. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Tell me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “I--I want to feel your mouth on--on--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>He’s too embarrassed to say it. He’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to want. He’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>lust </span>
  </em>
  <span>after the sensation of your wet mouth on his android cock. But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>So you’ll give it to--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The vibrator slips from your fingers </span>
  <em>
    <span>again, </span>
  </em>
  <span>falling against the side of your thigh instead of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>spot you were eagerly rubbing against it. God </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>dammit. It’s the fucking brace. You grab it with your left hand and tear off one of the velcro straps, but before you can get it off, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s a bad idea. Your wrist is all stiff and not wearing the brace isn’t going to help. It’ll probably hurt even more. You’re just going to have to figure something out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For now, you swap the wand into your left hand. It feels clunky as shit, and you have absolutely no confidence in your abilities, but at least you can hold the damn thing in place for the five to ten minutes it’ll take you to force an orgasm out of the twenty-piece puzzle that is your clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Focus. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Don’t let your actual frustration replace your sexual frustration. Think good thoughts. Sexy thoughts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Your mouth on his cock.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You bet he’d moan. Loud, too. Enough that you’d worry the neighbors will hear. He squeezes his eyes shut, cutting off his voice with a barely-audible click.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You pull your lips from the underside of his cock to point a stern look in his direction. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Connor,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you warn. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I want to hear you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    He takes a few panting gasps. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“S-sorry-- sorry, Detecti-- ah-- hah!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You don’t let him finish. Before he can fully apologize, you take the head between your lips and into your mouth, rolling your tongue up and around the too-smooth biocomponent. It’s velvet-soft, like your favorite silicone toys, like the skin on his neck. The bionic muscles in his thighs shake and tremble as your tongue works at him, slow and cautious, lingering on the shallow divot where the head meets his frenulum. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nobody’s touched him like this before. He probably has </span>
  <em>
    <span>no </span>
  </em>
  <span>idea what’s happening to him, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes </span>
  </em>
  <span>you. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to keep going, to find out </span>
  <em>
    <span>how this will all end.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>And so do you, so you take him deeper into your mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“De--!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s that glitch in his voice again. His wrists are straining against whatever’s holding him back. Maybe it’s handcuffs. Maybe it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Maybe you told him not to move his wrists, and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>obeying.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Fuck.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You whisper. You’re actually getting close. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Detective, p-please--!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor whines, chest heaving with frantic breaths. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I--I want-- I want you to--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>A shiver of pleasure travels up your spine from your core. You arch your back, pressing your pelvis into the head of the wand--</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>--and it fucking slips down your thigh again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Fuck!” In an unflattering moment of rage, you throw the vibrator against the bed, which only makes your wrist cry out in pain again. Your pulse throbs between your legs, subsiding slightly with each heartbeat. This isn’t working. It isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>going </span>
  </em>
  <span>to work, and you just made it fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re going to fall asleep, hornier than ever, then wake up in the morning, wander into the office, and sit three feet away from that </span>
  <em>
    <span>sexy motherfucker </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>dream </span>
  </em>
  <span>about your mouth on his dick all day.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Unless.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>An idea springs to mind. One you’ve had before. One that, for the first time, your lust-addled mind doesn’t immediately shoot down.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>It’s not that far away.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You blow a heavy sigh out your nose and grit your teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>It doesn’t even cost that much.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You stare up at the ceiling. Is this who you’ve become? Is this who you want to be?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Nobody will recognize you, and if they do, you’re in the same boat.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You glance at the clock. 1:12 AM.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>They’re open all night. It’s a ten-minute drive from here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Then back to the ceiling. Fuck. You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>You’ll be back home by 3 AM. Just chug another Red Bull in the morning.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fucking hell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Resigned to your fate, you toss the sheets off the bed and grab your jeans off the floor. Once you’ve got them and a pair of socks on, you grab your old college sweatshirt from the closet and pull it over your head. No use dressing up or putting on a bra. You’re not going to be wearing it long, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You grab your keys as you slip into your shoes and storm out the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s time to become a patron of the Eden Club.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:) please look forward to the next chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    You slam the door to your car. The crisp autumn air chills the inside of your nose as you breathe in, then exhale with a groan. Gaudy pink and purple lights reflect off the surface of the parking lot, still wet from the rain earlier in the day. The name of the establishment is plastered all over the side of the building, along with its slogan: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eden Club: Sexiest androids in town.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Fuck. You’re really going to do this, aren’t you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You scurry forward before the guilt makes you reconsider. You probably should have parked further back in the lot, but it’s too late now. Besides, if anyone recognizes your car, that means </span>
  <em>
    <span>they’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>here too, so it’s not like they can use it against you or anything. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Unless they decide to, anyways.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re doing this. You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing this. You’re injured, you’re tired, you’re sexually frustrated as </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it’s totally and completely normal to want to do something about that. There’s nothing wrong about owning your sexuality. It’s almost 2040. Times are changing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your internal lecture does little to calm your churning stomach. Yes, you’re hornier than you’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>been, but you’re also nervous as </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>What’s it like in there? Is it full of fat, gross men, lusting over hot android babes? Are people just fucking out in the open? Are you gonna get carded at the door?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    At least one of those questions gets answered for you as you near the door: one woman exits, catches your eye, then holds the door for you. You mumble a “thanks” as you step into the building. Maybe it won’t be as gross as you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You grit your teeth and force yourself to take in the scenery. You’d expected it to be more like a traditional strip club, but it’s more like a CyberLife store than anything. Scantily-clad androids stand in glass containers, striking provocative poses. A display on the side of each one lights up with animated catchphrases. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m wet for you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>says one Asian beauty. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Take me for a ride, </span>
  </em>
  <span>says a dark-skinned bodybuilder. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>I wanna go home, groans </span>
  </em>
  <span>an ashamed voice within you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    No. It’s too late. You’re here and you’re doing this--and so are plenty of other people. At least half of the private rooms are lit up as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Occupied, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and a good number of men, women, and couples are milling about, quietly oohing and ahhing over the writhing goods on display. Hell, there might even be </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>women here than men, which is both surprising </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>refreshing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You dig your hands into the front pocket of your sweatshirt and force yourself forward into the “club”. Signs floating on the walls and near the merchandise lists the </span>
  <em>
    <span>“super simple” </span>
  </em>
  <span>instructions: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Find a hottie with the right body. Check them out with the touch of a finger. Let them take you to paradise. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Still clenching your jaw, you force yourself to stop and look at one in more detail. The android--the tall, dark, and handsome sort--stops its idle animation and leans forward to the glass, arching his back and pressing his perfect hands to the sides of his container. You flush and tear your eyes away, instead focusing on the display to the side. </span>
  <em>
    <span>New for the Fall Season! Equipped with the hottest tech CyberLife has to offer. Will you take him for a ride, or teach him a lesson? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Shit. That actually sounds a little hot. You reach for the panel and swipe left to view the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Features </span>
  </em>
  <span>section.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Model: HR400-4</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Equipment: Avenger 8” fully-coordinated cock and balls,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>               Ignacio self-lubricating ass (8” depth)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Purchasable Add-Ons: RealCum</span>
  </em>
  <span>™</span>
  <em>
    <span> Dispenser, 200+ Roleplay models, and more…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Dear God. How did the description make it sound even </span>
  <em>
    <span>less </span>
  </em>
  <span>palatable than before? Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>named </span>
  </em>
  <span>the android dildos and pocket pussies? Do people actually keep </span>
  <em>
    <span>track </span>
  </em>
  <span>of which ones they like? </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey, you got any studs with an 8” Avenger?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You shudder. Is this what you’ve become?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Apparently, yes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You wander over to the next male android. Like the other one, as soon as he spots you, he starts in on a gyrating hip motion that makes you want to laugh </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>puke at the same time. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Avenger 7” fully-coordinated cock and balls. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Good to know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The </span>
  <em>
    <span>next </span>
  </em>
  <span>one catches your eye, and the second you realize it does, you know you’ve fucked up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For one, he looks damn similar. Same skin tone, same short hair, though his is a bit longer. What draws you in, and dampens the feeling of shame in your stomach, is the look in his eyes. Where the others seemed to be trying too hard, this one seems content to stay where he is. He stops his idle animation to smooth a hand over the top of his thigh, but that’s it. His tongue flickers out to lick at his upper lip. Tension in his bare arms makes it seem like he’s holding himself back. Like he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to pick him, but doesn’t want to seem desperate.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You quickly glance at the details--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Steelarm 6” Curve--</span>
  </em>
  <span>before pressing the palm of your hand to the payment terminal. The system chimes, then displays the purchase details and rental start time on screen. No turning back now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The glass slides open, and the modest android steps out. “Thank you.” Its voice is calm, cool, and collected, not unlike someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else’s. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“May I show you to your room?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yes.” You huff, crossing your arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It leads you around a corner, through what’s aptly titled the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Blue Room, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then presses its hand against a door displaying </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vacancy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It slides open to reveal the room for your lust-addled mistake: a king-sized bed sits in the center, flanked on either side by gossamer curtains. A small table, loaded up with booze and candy, hugs the wall on the right, while what appears to be a computer terminal or display panel is set up on the left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Is this your first time at the Eden Club?” It asks, reaching for your elbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You tug your arm out of the way before it can touch you. “Yeah. Am I supposed to set something up, or…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You don’t have to, but I recommend you at least set your basic preferences.” It--</span>
  <em>
    <span>he, </span>
  </em>
  <span>fuck, you’re so confused--gestures to the screen on the terminal, then takes a seat at the foot of the bed. “Let me know if you have any questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Right. Yeah.” Teeth still clenched, you scamper over to the terminal, desperate to focus on something </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>than the extremely handsome half-naked android. A large blue button prompts you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Start Your Sexperience. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ugh. You press it all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    How would you like to customize your experience today?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The terminal offers two options. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Help me decide </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll do it myself.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You swallow the last remnants of your pride and press the first button.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    How are you feeling tonight? Dominant, submissive, or both?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You bite your lip. That’s easy enough, considering the fantasies you’ve entertained these past two weeks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dominant.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The screen flickers to the next question. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What qualities are you looking for in your partner? Choose as many as you like.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    A matrix of words and phrases fades into view, patterned in pinks, blues, and purples. Without thinking, you begin tapping, barely aware of the growing warmth at your thighs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eager to please. Completely obedient. Desperate for his pleasure. Shy/Embarrassed. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You proceed to the next question. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How experienced do you want your partner? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Funny how you don’t even hesitate to drag the slider to </span>
  <em>
    <span>inexperienced.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    How sensitive do you want your partner?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You put your finger on the slider. As you move it towards </span>
  <em>
    <span>very sensitive, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you watch a small number below tick downwards from </span>
  <em>
    <span>10 minutes </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>1 minute. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Probably best not to put it all the way down, then. </span>
  <em>
    <span>5 minutes </span>
  </em>
  <span>sounds about right. Besides, you’re going to tease it out of him, slowly but surely.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    What do you need to get off? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Another matrix of ideas appears. Seems it’s already profiled you as </span>
  <em>
    <span>cisfemale</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though you really don’t want to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>how. </span>
  </em>
  <span>For now, you select </span>
  <em>
    <span>clitoral vibration </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>vaginal stimulation</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No need to get too fancy. You’re more interested in playing with the android, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You press </span>
  <em>
    <span>confirm. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The information fades into a quick loading screen. A few moments later, the terminal fades to a dark purple. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Preferences Set. Have a pleasant experience.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Here goes everything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You turn towards the android.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Already, you can tell there’s something different about him. The quiet confidence from before is gone, loosening his jaw and the tension in his arms. His eyes regard you with curiosity, then nervously flick back to the hands folded in his lap. A synthetic blush is coming over his cheeks and coloring the tips of his ears. His toes curl into the plush carpet. When he looks back at you, his lips part, and his Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What…” He begins, cutting himself off abruptly. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>shy </span>
  </em>
  <span>setting hard at work, you realize. His voice is tinged with an anxious hue, and the slight fidget of his hands isn’t lost on you at all. “What would you like me to call you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Somehow, all the doubts you had before have faded into the background. You’re more awake than you’ve ever been. You take a step forward, then tug your sweatshirt and T-shirt up and over your head, baring your chest for the nervous android.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective.” You breathe, watching as he glances between your face and your naked breasts. You shuffle a few paces forward to stand in front of him, then lift a hand to his chin. The silicone skin on his jaw is just as smooth as Connor’s. Maybe even </span>
  <em>
    <span>smoother. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You drag your thumb up and along his cheek, watching carefully as he shivers under your touch. It’s not one hundred percent convincing, but it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>what you need right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them with fluttering eyelashes. “Alright, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your sex </span>
  <em>
    <span>tenses </span>
  </em>
  <span>with excitement.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your hand skips to his shoulder and gives it a shove. The android falls backwards onto the bed with a human </span>
  <em>
    <span>gasp. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The flow of the moment overtakes you, and once you kick off your jeans, you climb over the rising android to sit on its waist, recreating the scene from your earlier fantasy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective,” he whispers. There’s a flutter of sensation at the back of your thigh--an unsure hand drifting upwards. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You idly trace the line of his artificial ribcage with your index finger, studying his expression thoroughly. It’s a close replica, but nowhere near perfect. Not like Connor’s. There’s still something uncanny about his--</span>
  <em>
    <span>its</span>
  </em>
  <span>--movement. Your finger moves upwards to flicker over its artistically-sculpted nipple, and it flinches beneath you. Still just barely inhuman. It makes you wonder: </span>
  <em>
    <span>How would Connor’s reaction be different?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android raises its other hand to its mouth, stifling a whimper. You grab the offending wrist and pin it beside its head. It takes a quick, gasping breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What--” Another stutter, one that sounds almost exactly like the first. “What would you like to call </span>
  <em>
    <span>me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re unsure. He’s not Connor, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>calling </span>
  </em>
  <span>him as such might make it hard to face him tomorrow, but--but you really </span>
  <em>
    <span>wish </span>
  </em>
  <span>he </span>
  <em>
    <span>were </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor. You’re strong enough to endure any self-inflicted embarrassment later… right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s too late for you to be mulling this over so hard. You do what feels right.</span>
</p><p>
  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471315/chapters/62447974">
    <span>&gt; </span>
    <em>
      <span>“Connor.”</span>
    </em>
  </a>
</p><p>
  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471315/chapters/62448043">
    <em>
      <span>&gt; [Don't give him a name.]</span>
    </em>
  </a>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    For the second time this week, you’re staring at a naked corpse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The man lies splayed out on the bed, eyes glassy, mouth hanging open. The sheets beneath him are stained with sweat and spittle. There’s no blood, or any wounds to be seen on his body, save for the red-and-purple marks around his neck. It all looks too eerily familiar. Maybe it’s the corpse you saw a few days ago with the same colors on her neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s the fact that the room is exactly the same as the one you rented out an hour ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You take a deep breath to sigh, which is a horrible idea, seeing as the room reeks of sweat, lube, and testosterone. Connor’s going to be here soon, which means there’s no use in analyzing the body, or the beat-up android on the floor. Best that you stop staring at them, too, because it’s dredging up all sorts of dark thoughts about the seemingly innocent act you committed not an hour ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    This could have been you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You swallow back the bile building in your throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Imagine being found like this.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    No. That’s enough of that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With another huff, you turn towards the dark kiosk at the left edge of the room. Might as well see what he signed up for. It could give you a clue as to what settings in particular might’ve caused the android to go a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>hard on the choking.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Unless he didn’t ask for choking at all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You grit your teeth and tap the screen, waking the display with a flash of purple and pink. A long list of selected keywords appears, neat and orderly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Dominant.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    Kidnapper/Victim Scenario [Additional Charge].</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    Threesome. Noncon. Begging.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    Swallowing [Additional Charge].</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    Breathplay (Android).<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    Physical violence [Additional Charge].</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Reading the list only exacerbates the nausea you’re desperately trying to hold back. Same shit as all the other murderbots. Some abusive fuck beating the shit out of them wakes them up, and they take matters into their own hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glance over to the android on the floor. Her mouth and torso are smeared with the thirium leaking from cracks in the plating of her cheek and stomach. That kind of abuse would do it. Any sympathy you had for the dead fucker vanishes into thin air.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Wait. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You look back at the list. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Threesome.’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Where’s the other android?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The door behind you slides open. You’re not emotionally prepared to deal with the person who enters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Here I thought I’d be the first one here,” Gavin says, strolling into the room with barely a care. “How the hell’d you get here so fast, Pumpkin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re not sure you like what he’s insinuating, especially because it’s true. Still, you turn towards him, maintaining a healthy scowl. “Hello to you too, Dipshit.” You grumble. “I live three blocks away and was already up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No shit?” At least he’s not trying to make banter. “Just your luck then, huh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yeah.” You sigh. “Why are you here, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Was patrolling in the area when the radio call went out. Chris and I were the closest unit.” He jerks a thumb behind him. “He’s out there talking to the owner now, though I’m not sure it’s really gonna help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “We’ll be the judge of that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His neutral expression takes on a devious hue. “We, huh? Come to think of it, where’s your plastic pet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You roll your eyes. “On his way here from the station. Gonna need him to help out with analyzing the body. Might even be able to talk to the android.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, shit, it’s good for something other than fetching coffee, then, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “More use around here than you, Dipshit.” You run a hand over your head and sigh. “Coffee sounds really fucking good right now, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Gavin folds his arms over his chest. “Tell it to get you some, then. Can’t you just text its brain or something? Creepy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You sigh. “Last thing I need right now is Connor taking </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>time to get over here. The sooner he gets here, the sooner we’re done, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe </span>
  </em>
  <span>I can get some fucking sleep tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The disgruntled detective narrows his devious look into a suspicious glare. “You’re getting too fucking familiar with that thing, Pumpkin. I know you don’t want me to tell you to be careful, but--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Can you lecture me when I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>staring at a corpse penis, Gavin?” You try to keep your frustration hidden.</span>
</p><p><span>    Luckily, he takes the hint and transitions back to playful, if not inappropriate, banter. “What, that all it takes to get you going? And here I</span> <span>thought </span><em><span>I </span></em><span>needed to get la--”</span></p><p>
  <span>    The door slides open again, causing the both of you to turn. Connor nods to Detective Reed, then cocks a brow in your direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You made good time, Detective.” He chimes, ignoring Gavin’s scowl. “I didn’t hear from you, so I thought you might take a little while longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shit, sorry, Connor.” You swear, scratching at the back of your neck. “I got distracted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    And you’re about to be even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>distracted, because Gavin lets out one of his famous scoffs and marches out of the room, but not without deliberately bumping into Connor. The door shuts behind him, leaving you and the object of your lewd affections alone in the sex room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Suddenly, the weight of your actions an hour prior comes crashing down on you. You’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked an android that looks exactly like him while thinking about him the whole fucking time, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and now here he is, in the same fucking room, with the same fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>gorgeous </span>
  </em>
  <span>face. You have to force yourself to look away before you give away too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    I’m so fucked.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong. Protocols kicking in, you hope, as he examines the corpse on the bed. “Have you discovered anything of importance, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Actually, yeah.” You lean against the wall and try to look anywhere other than the bed that Connor’s leaning over and </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy, would you like to bend him over that be-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Took a look at the preferences he set for his, uh, experience. Guy wanted to beat the shit out of two girls who didn’t even want to be here. Figure that’s what, uh, set them off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor doesn’t immediately respond, too focused on the injuries on the man’s neck. “One of them strangled him to death.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Was it that one on the floor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He glances behind him. “I’ll check.” Then squats down next to the broken android.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Now that he’s turned away from you, you can resume staring holes into his back. Fuck. How are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>horny after all this bullshit? How can your lewd imagination still be so </span>
  <em>
    <span>active? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Right now, it’s playing a vision of you striding forward and pinning Connor to the wall with a kiss. Then, your hand dips down to tug his belt free and </span>
  <em>
    <span>you fucking force yourself to look at the goddamn naked corpse because what in the actual fuck is wrong with you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“It wasn’t this one.” Connor stands, straightening his jacket. “It must have been the other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, shit. It’s probably long gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Not necessarily.” He folds his arms and brings a pensive hand to his chin. Gods, you wish that were your hand, turning his embarrassed expression to face you </span>
  <em>
    <span>and--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You slap yourself across the face, hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor blinks. “Are you alright, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Cheek stinging, you nod. “Yeah, just… needed to wake myself up. What were you saying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It’s likely the deviant never left the club.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “So it’s still here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Precisely.” He takes a few hesitant steps forward. “I’ll try to connect to the CCTV and see if I can spot the deviant leaving the room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You shrug and sigh. “The club doesn’t have CCTV. Privacy and all that.” You know because you </span>
  <em>
    <span>checked </span>
  </em>
  <span>when you came in the door for your experience earlier. “Could always check to see which female androids were in use during his rental period.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Good idea. There should be logs.” He looks to the door. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You follow him out of the room into the eerily empty club. Despite that, the androids in their pods and on the poles continue to gyrate and sway. At least you can distract yourself with work. Connor’s wandering off to do his android thing, so you decide to keep busy by talking with the manager, who’s leading a pair of paramedics towards the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Ah, Detective, can, uh…” He stammers, sweat pouring down his face. “Is the room clear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Go ahead, he’s all yours.” You gesture to the door and let the medical staff enter. “You’ve never had issues with androids hurting guests before, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No, never.” He wrings his hands at his chest. The motion is distracting. “I mean, we </span>
  <span>have guests who </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>them to hurt them, but even then, they can only do some very light choking, or spanking, or--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, that’s enough,” you interrupt. “How often do you have guys coming in who want to beat them up that bad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The manager licks his lips and averts his eyes. “Often enough. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it, I mean, better they’re beating up a bot than a real person, right? And our deal with CyberLife means we can get replacements pretty quick, so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You frown. “Deal with CyberLife? What kind of deal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A bead of sweat trickles down his cheek. He wipes at it with his bare palm. “Well, we don’t actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>any of these androids. Some of them are refurbished models, but most are custom-made by CyberLife for our chain of clubs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That sets off alarm bells in your head. One thing at a time, though. “What do you mean by refurbished models? Like, pre-owned sex bots, or…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The manager shakes his head. “No, they’re--CyberLife provides them, too. They’re previously defective house or commercial androids that have been repaired and equipped for, ah, club purposes.” He sniffs, sweaty nostrils glistening in the neon lights. “But we’ve never had an issue with any of them before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re just about to ask about the custom-made models when Connor approaches you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Excuse me, Detective, can I borrow you for a minute?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Sure. You find something?” You nod to the manager and follow the android’s hurried footsteps. Maybe you can get out of here sooner than later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Maybe.” He comes to a stop in front of an android in a glass pod. “Could you rent this Traci for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A thought rushes to the forefront of your mind--</span>
  <em>
    <span>android threesome with Connor, holy shit--</span>
  </em>
  <span>but you squash it before it has a chance to blossom into an image. “You want me to pay for a sex android?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Just trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He levels his gaze at you, and God </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn it all</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’s so eager and excited. How can you say no to those eyes? Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    So, with an exaggerated huff and a resigned expression, you plant your palm on the rental display and confirm your purchase. Hopefully Connor doesn’t notice how you know </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>how to do that. With a </span>
  <em>
    <span>beep, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the pod opens, and the glittery, half-naked android sashays out into the open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pleasure </span>
  </em>
  <span>to meet you two.” She purrs, looking between you and Connor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Android threesome, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the gremlin screeches. “Let me show you to your room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Before she can take your arm, Connor reaches out for her hand. The android pauses, looks to him, then takes his arm. The two machines exchange a long, drawn-out stare, punctuated by plenty of stuttered blinks and twitching cheeks. You watch awkwardly from the side. Even your unsatisfied gremlin finds the behavior </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>inhuman to joke about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Eventually, he lets go of her hand and turns to you. “It saw something--the deviant left the room!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It takes you a moment to process that. “Wait, you can see what it saw?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor nods. “Only the last two hours. We’ve got to hurry and find another witness, before their memory gets overwritten!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    God, he’s so excited, it’s contagious. “Shit, let’s do it! Lead the way!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He does, with you following quickly after. Creepy or not, this is one advantage Connor had over regular human detectives: tapping directly into androids to get a literal eyewitness account of what happened. No trying to talk a statement out of a traumatized witness, or fiddling with decades-old CCTV. Just a few seconds of </span>
  <em>
    <span>interfacing </span>
  </em>
  <span>and you knew all you needed to know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s not until he asks you to unlock the third android prostitute that you start to realize the implications.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    He can see everything the android has seen in the last two hours.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You watch as his gaze stutters at the android.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    That includes you, dumbass.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your blood runs cold. You walked past this very row of androids earlier. Just about two hours ago, too. If one of them happened to see you, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor would, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Oh, fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Screaming panic takes over any brainpower you’d dedicated to solving this murder. There’s no denying he’ll see you; even if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>just looking for the murderer, who left the room a while after you arrived, he’ll still be scanning each android’s memory. If he happens to linger too long on a piece of footage, he’ll spot you, and that means he’ll likely </span>
  <em>
    <span>ask </span>
  </em>
  <span>you if you were here earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    What do you say? Deny it? Like fuck that will work, since he can identify a face from like, fifty feet away. Maybe you were here researching. You wanted to learn more about androids, especially ones who were more likely to be abused, so you came here to interview a sex bot. In your sweatshirt and jeans. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>you paid for it, too. Humans are irrational, though, Connor. It was late, and you had an illogical thought. Silly human detective.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Fat fucking chance he’ll believe it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    For now, he hasn’t caught on. Or maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>and just isn’t saying anything. You’re not sure what gives you more anxiety. You follow after him all the same, unlocking another sex bot, then another. The trail of memories takes you in a long, snaking curve through the club. You feel safe for a few blissful minutes, when the witnesses lead you to a room you </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t walk through, but it’s not long until Connor declares that the suspect turned into the Blue Room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your eyes linger briefly on the door to the room you’d occupied before, before you move forward to see which unit your partner wants to interface with next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    On cue, your heart leaps into your throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “This one next, please, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Model: HR400-4.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>The same model from earlier. The one you </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked </span>
  </em>
  <span>while hoping it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You hesitate. He picks up on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>    “I--” You lick your lips, stalling for time. “I don’t think this one saw anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Why not?” The way he tilts his head is too cute, but your heart’s already racing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I-- I saw it come out of a room when I was looking around earlier.” It’s the truth, technically. Hopefully it’s enough to fool Connor’s lie detector. “It kind of looked like you, so it-- it caught my eye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His focus lingers on you longer than you’d like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What?” You spit, crossing your arms and clenching your jaw. “Don’t make this weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m sorry, Detective,” he begins, offering you a look of pity, “but I need to check, just to be sure. Could you please rent it for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Mission failed.</span>
  </em>
  <span> This is happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You try your best to keep the look of defeat off of your steely expression. “All right.” Your hand brushes over the top of your head, then reaches for the touch display. With a beep, the glass slides open, and your android ex-lover steps free of containment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your chest tightens as Connor reaches for the android’s hand. It couldn’t be the same one. Don’t they have to get cleaned after customers are done with them? That would take some time, right? It can’t be the same one. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t. It better fucking not be, or you’ve just signed your own death warrant with that android’s dick.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Too many seconds tick by before Connor releases the sexbot and ushers it back into its case. He closes his eyes, then opens them to look directly at you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You’re right. It didn’t see anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re too relieved to hear what he says next, though you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>follow him to the next row of androids. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, pressing your palm to unlock a sultry girl with a huge rack. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I was this close to losing everything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, watching Connor take hold of a half-naked man’s forearm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If he had seen, he would’ve asked to be reassigned, and never spoken to me again, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, following Connor through a door marked </span>
  <em>
    <span>Employees Only.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You snap out of your relieved trance and reach for your flashlight. “Right, sorry, just-- thinking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Penny for your thoughts?” He chimes, letting you step forward through the door to the warehouse. It smells of plastic and humidity, likely because the huge garage door over the delivery entrance is open to the pouring rain outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You hop down the steps to cross the warehouse floor. “Sure, just…” Your eyes scan over the rows of half-naked androids. “Just wondering what we should do when we find the thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Besides apprehend it?” He takes the right side of the room as you investigate the left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yeah, like…” You pause to shine your flashlight on a makeshift repair table. A female android without her skin is missing her abdomen and genitals. Human or not, it’s still a gruesome sight. “I understand she murdered the guy, but she’s a victim, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “The deviant android is a victim?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He doesn’t sound condescending, but the question makes you feel stupid all the same. “Maybe? I’m not sure how to put it, just…” You turn the light towards Connor to watch him examine a cluster of androids. “If deviants really </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>feel emotions, then I can’t imagine how scared she must’ve been.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your partner glances back towards you. His LED spins yellow, face deep in faux thought. After a long moment, it goes blue. “You’re right. An experience like that would have been traumatic to a deviant. All the more reason to apprehend it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I suppose.” You sigh. At least your half-assed answer has dragged you out of your horny thoughts and put you in the mood for finding a terrified killer. Still, you can’t help but linger on your own discomfort, especially as you prowl about the dark, damp warehouse. Androids are machines, designed to accomplish tasks. So what if that task is “let a guy beat me up and rape me”? If it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to want otherwise, then is it wrong when the guy continues when she says no? Could someone rape an android?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Did </span>
  </em>
  <span>you </span>
  <em>
    <span>rape an android?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective, I--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A clatter echoes off the concrete-and-rebar walls of the huge room. You turn your light towards it to see Connor getting shoved backwards by not one, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>two </span>
  </em>
  <span>androids. One pulls back a fist and clocks him in the temple, sending him stumbling over a haphazardly-placed pile of boxes. The other launches itself at him as he falls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You change gears quickly. Violence tends to help with that. Without a second thought, you toss your flashlight to the ground and draw your firearm, dashing forward to find a better vantage point. Before you can shout out a warning, however, the first android comes rushing in your direction. It’s lithe and lean, all tits and ass, not like the muscular houseservant android you tussled with before, but it still hits you like a fucking truck. The force is enough to knock the gun out of your injured grip--</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, I’m an idiot--</span>
  </em>
  <span>and toss you to the ground, though this time, you’re smart enough to drag the damn thing with you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Crippled wrist or not, training is training, so when the android climbs atop you and tries to beat you into submission, you fight back. Its tiny arms hold a fraction of the power its body did, and blocking its blows is easy enough, but the speed leaves you no time to figure out how the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get it off you. You can hear Connor wrestling with the other one a few paces away, knocking over shelves and spilling boxes filled with clinking metal. You don’t have time to waste. You might not be as strong or as fast as any of these bots, but you’ve got to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android girl swings at you. You catch her wrist with your left hand before it connects, then give it a jerk to pull her frame into your chest. The opportunity lasts a second, but you make the most of it. A knee to her groin, a twist of your spine, and the momentum throws the both of you to the side, knocking her head against a table leg. It dazes her--</span>
  <em>
    <span>androids get dazed by head trauma, good to know--</span>
  </em>
  <span>for just long enough for you to grab your handcuffs and get one link around her wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Before you can get the second one around the metal post of the table, a hand clamps onto your ponytail and pulls you backwards by the hair. You let out a yelp and thrust your elbow backwards into the other android’s chest. It’s a sharp enough blow that she’s forced to take a few staggering steps backwards, allowing you enough time to spin to face her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Her appearance puts your action on pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    One strap of her sports bra is torn and frayed, hanging limply from her torso. Her silicone skin breaks into ribbons of white plastic on her neck in the shape of human hands. There’s thirium all over her face, leaking from her nose and a fractured plate at her cheek. When you look into her eyes, you don’t see an android. You see something </span>
  <em>
    <span>more. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Something terrified. Something alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Some</span>
  <em>
    <span>one.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    In that moment, you react like you would if she were human: by raising your hands in a defensive, calming gesture, and shouting, “It’s alright--I’m not going to hurt you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android stares at you for a second. When Connor rushes toward her, she breaks eye contact and dashes past you and your outstretched arm. Her hand grabs the other android’s wrist and pulls her to her feet, half-dragging her as she darts for the exit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor sprints past you after them like a bat out of hell. You catch a glimpse of thirium on his cheek, and worry floods your heart. He’s too fast, though. They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>too fast. All you can do is grab your gun from the warehouse floor, then run after them as they flee into the rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The pair of androids leaps onto the fence, scaling it faster than should be humanly possible. Connor gets there before they can make it over and grabs the back of one’s top, pulling it to the soaking-wet asphalt with a sickening crunch of plastic. Unsurprisingly, the other girl leaps down on top of him, pummeling him with another series of fast, somewhat ineffective blows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your gun is still in your hand, but you can’t find it in you to point it at them. Not only is it not a clear shot, but you’re not sure if you want to shoot them. What have they done wrong? Who is in the wrong here, really? What does it mean to be deviant, even? It doesn’t make sense, because it’s all too </span>
  <em>
    <span>real.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The hesitation lasts a second too long. The two androids each grab one of Connor’s arms and toss him to the ground. He rolls, rather gracefully, you acknowledge, and comes out of it on his back, both hands cradling the firearm you’d provided him with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The deviant charges.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t shoot!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Milliseconds later, the android crashes into him, tossing the gun aside and splaying him out onto his side. She rears back up onto her feet as the other android--the other </span>
  <em>
    <span>girl--</span>
  </em>
  <span>creeps up to her side and takes her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>defending </span>
  </em>
  <span>myself,” she shouts, loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “He was going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill</span>
  </em>
  <span> me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Her eyes find yours, then soften.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “We’re going to be free. Don’t stop us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    All you can do is stand there as the two scantily-clad androids climb over the fence--in high heels, no less--and disappear out into the dark of night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You wander forward, only somewhat conscious of the rain pelting your shoulders and torso. Connor’s still staring off into the distance, LED glowing a bright red. The thirium on his cheek has washed away in the downpour. It wasn’t his. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank goodness, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a dark part of you sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You alright?” You murmur, reaching down to offer a hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He doesn’t take it. Instead, he keeps staring, even as he speaks. “I failed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yeah.” You follow his gaze out into the darkness. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have told you not to shoot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He shakes his head. “Your orders don’t have priority over my primary mission parameters. I should have--” His voice stutters to a stop as his dazed expression contorts into one of shame. “I should have stopped them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You set a hand on his shoulder. Only then does he look up at you with those puppy-dog eyes and ashamed frown. “It’s okay. You did a good job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You give him a little squeeze. It seems to work: the tension in his face eases, and his LED flickers to yellow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “C’mon. Let’s head back inside. Get finished up so we can head home and rest. Sound good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He breaks eye contact to nod, then to stand and follow you inside. You can’t help but feel even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>worried by his reaction. He really seems upset, or disappointed, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>ashamed </span>
  </em>
  <span>of himself. It doesn’t seem like an act, either. Why would he need to pretend to be disappointed? Shouldn’t he just shrug it off and go back to normal?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Whatever it is, it’s too late, and you’re too tired to think any harder about it. At the very least, one thing is apparent:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You are in </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>over your head with this case.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I read every comment and it feeds me, I love you guys so much.</p><p>I hope you're looking forward to what the Actual Plot has in store for our favorite androidfucker in the next few chapters :^)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    You’d hoped your liaison with the sex android would have helped you get a good night’s sleep. Instead, you spend most of it tossing and turning, bouncing between different anxieties. What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>deviancy? Was it okay to let those androids go? What will happen to you and Connor, now that you’ve deliberately sabotaged a case? Did Connor </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>see nothing when he interfaced with that android, or is he lying to maintain your working relationship? Are you really still thinking about going </span>
  <em>
    <span>back </span>
  </em>
  <span>to the Eden Club for another night with a robot, even after </span>
  <em>
    <span>all this?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    No answers come. Instead, you wake from a fitful sleep around noon, with a new crick in your back, sore muscles in your thighs and sex, and what feels like a bruise in the corner of one tired eye. No amount of Red Bull is going to cure all of your ailments, but you still down two before you trundle into the station at a quarter past one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The rush of caffeine is supposed to help you concentrate, but really, you’re not about to get anything done today. For one, there’s the case from last night. Lots of paperwork to finish, lots of evidence to sort through, lots of conclusions to draw, so warrants can be drawn up for additional investigations. Connor offers to put in a request to speak with a CyberLife programmer, which you graciously accept. At least </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>might be able to give you more information on what the fuck is going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Which leads you to problem number two: the sheer scale of the case you’re working. You dip your toes into the case file for a moment to check up on some files, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ, </span>
  </em>
  <span>there are even more than before. Is everyone just assigning any incident with “android involvement” to your massive case file? How are you supposed to investigate </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of them? There’s no way. Today, you spotted over four hundred records in Detroit alone, ranging in scope from “my android took too long to get me a beer” to “my android beat my dog to death with the laundry basket”. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That begs the question, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why the fuck isn’t CyberLife doing more to investigate this? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sure, those fuckers love money, but you’d think with this many cases, word is going to start going around that androids just aren’t safe anymore. Where are the rest of CyberLife’s investigators? Is it just you and Connor, or are they doing more? Connor doesn’t seem to know. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> mission, he says. He’s confident you’ll solve it. You wish you could be as positive as he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Speaking of which, then there’s Connor, who’s still sitting across from you, silently entering text into a report. His mood is much better than when you dropped him off at the station last night, but you still can’t help but worry. He’s supposed to do a good job, sure, but he’s not supposed to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>upset </span>
  </em>
  <span>when things fall through. Plus, it’s not like he made a mistake. You both </span>
  <em>
    <span>intentionally </span>
  </em>
  <span>let the suspects go, for good reasons, sure, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Connor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Unpleasantly, the fact that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>had sex with a robot that looked like him last night </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t seem to matter much to you, either, because your horny gremlin has spent a good chunk of the day glancing in his direction and thinking dirty thoughts about what you’d like to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>next time. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Who cares that a man was murdered by an android he raped? Who cares that he’s your partner, or that might have seen the first-person footage of you fucking a robot? All that matters is he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>hot</span>
  </em>
  <span> and you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>hot </span>
  </em>
  <span>for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s depressing, really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The cherry on top of the shit pile that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>today </span>
  </em>
  <span>is, in fact, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tomorrow. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’ve already requested the day off, and don’t have much scheduled besides an awkward video call, but that doesn’t keep you from dreading the day itself. In the end, it’s just another reminder of how fucked up your life is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    At least the Chief isn’t making you work your normal hours. As soon as the clock strikes five, you push back your chair and turn off your terminal. You pause to drink the last dregs of your sixth Red Bull, then chuck the can into the box with a satisfying clatter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Heading home, Detective?” Connor breaks eye contact with his terminal to smile at you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You sigh and grab your bag. “Yeah. Hoping I can get a nap in before dinner or something. Last night was rough.”</span>
  <em>
    <span> In so many ways</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you add to yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “A nap? After all that caffeine?” His smile cocks into a smirk. “Please let me know how that works for you, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I swear, I’m gonna switch your nickname to Dad, and you’re not gonna like it.” At least you can always count on banter to calm your nerves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “In that case, I suppose I’ll have to start calling you by </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>nickname, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pumpkin.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You bark out a laugh as you round your desk towards his, ignoring the flutter in your chest. “No, thank you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Detective </span>
  </em>
  <span>will do quite nicely, Sweetheart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s subtle, but you catch his eyes lighting up ever-so-slightly at the affectionate name. You sigh and give into your screaming gremlin by resting a hand on his shoulder as you pass by.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Before you go, Detective,” he starts, tearing his focus from you to retrieve something from a drawer. He comes back with your USB, which he presses into your palm. “I found an opera that I don’t believe you’ve listened to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Why, you interface with my phone?” You mean it in a joking way, but a part of you believes he’d do it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He lets out a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>huff </span>
  </em>
  <span>of a laugh. “I learned my lesson the first time, Detective. No. It’s just not as well-known as the few we listened to in the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Alright, I’ll give it a go.” Your hand is still on his shoulder--</span>
  <em>
    <span>shit, hopefully nobody noticed</span>
  </em>
  <span>--so you give it a few warm pats. “Have a good night, Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You as well--” He pauses mid-sentence, mouth hanging open for a brief moment. Eventually, he ends it with “Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Good choice.” You chuckle, before heading for the back door.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>    Despite the cold winter breeze blowing in snow showers, the air around you feels hot, humid, and heavier than ever. You’d hoped you’d be used to this bullshit by now, three years in, but just looking at the date on your phone makes your lungs feel uncomfortably weak.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>November 7th, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the screen reads. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Remember Kent.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>How can you not, when the date taints everything you do? Getting dressed? You remember the dinosaur pajamas he refused to change out of during summer vacation. Brushing your teeth? You remember how he’d wet his toothbrush before bed to trick Mom into thinking he’d finished getting ready. Showering? You remember the god-awful cloud of deodorant he’d leave in the bathroom in high school. No matter what you did, or where you looked, he’s there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It doesn’t hurt. Not like it did before. The one-year anniversary was the worst; you’d flown out to be with your parents for the day, and their tears stirred up your own. Things get a bit better every year, you’ve noticed, but it still weighs on you like a fifty-pound boulder. Maybe someday, you’ll be able to reminisce fondly, instead of this mish-mosh of emotions you’ll be feeling all day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Cleaning helps, so you get right to it. You scrub the bathroom, remembering how Kent could barely remember to flush the toilet for twenty out of the twenty-nine years he lived. You tidy up your room and vacuum, remembering how Kent managed to stain the carpet in every apartment your family has lived in. You clean the oven, then every one of the kitchen surfaces, remembering how Kent got caught binging cookies in 11th grade after smoking way too much weed. Everything you scrub comes with a little bit of your twin brother, but it’s not too much to endure. Most of the memories are fond, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    After cleaning comes the video call. You’d used a nonexistent case as an excuse not to fly out, which is probably why you’ve been saddled with the most complicated case of all time. Karma, or Kent being a dickhead in the afterlife. Probably both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    In either case, the call goes well. Your parents are at the beach, where you’d gathered to scatter the last of his ashes. The wind whipping about the tablet doesn’t make it easy to hear, but you smile and nod all the same. Your dad is the first to start crying this year, which gets both you and your mom crying, too. Eventually, after an hour of talking, sharing stories, and listening to your parents quietly bicker about the sand on the picnic blanket, you hang up, feeling freed of at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the heaviness in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Staying productive keeps your mind busy, so you get to work on the rest of your chores. You start a backup on your laptop, remembering how Kent trashed at least two of his because he kept putting it up on the top bunk in precarious positions. You throw out all the bad food in the fridge, remembering how Kent once ate a spoonful of year-old marshmallow fluff from the back of the crisper drawer. You sign into your social media for the first time in two months to acknowledge the notifications and respond to a few sympathetic messages, remembering how Kent once messaged you three hundred and twenty-two photos of a cartoon character saying “butthole”. You were both twenty-six at the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For whatever reason, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>particular memory stabs you in the chest harder than all the rest. Station banter is good and all, but it isn’t the same. It could never be as good as what you and Kent had. Sure, you’d grown apart for a few years in college, but your relationship bounced right back when you both moved home. He even took the time to visit you a few times a month, despite the drive from Cleveland being absolutely dogshit on weeknights. He did it for the banter. For you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    And he was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Too much thinking, you decide, so you throw on your coat and head out of the house to do some shopping. The weekly grocery trip passes without incident--and without memory--but when you go for your dry cleaning, you can’t help but remember how stupid he looked in the oversized tuxedo he wore to your aunt’s wedding. Things go similarly poorly at the car wash, where you remember how he doused you with the hose when you were twelve, and you’d given him a bloody nose in the ensuing fight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    When you return home, you’re exhausted, but not too exhausted to stop remembering Kent when you pass out for a long-overdue nap. Part of you hopes you don’t dream, but there’s another, even stronger part of you that wishes he would treat you with a bit of his legendary banter while you sleep off the week’s, and the day’s, stress. In the end, you get neither of those things, as your inner gremlin treats you to a smorgasbord of sexual situations involving your favorite android.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    If it were any day other than today, you’d celebrate. Instead, you wake up at half past eight at night, feeling even more miserable than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    What would Kent think about your android situation, anyway, especially considering what happened to him today, three years ago? Would he worry? Feel insulted?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>No, he’d probably crack a joke about us </span>
  </em>
  <span>both </span>
  <em>
    <span>getting smashed by androids.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>The dark humor finally cracks the stony expression on your face. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>say that, too. Hell, he’d probably encourage it by flirting with your fucking partner when he visited you at the station. The guy had </span>
  <em>
    <span>no </span>
  </em>
  <span>shame, especially when making you laugh was concerned. Hell, he’d probably buy the damn android flowers with your name on them just to see how you’d react.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Kent. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You think, sorrow swelling in your chest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I wish you were here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You wander into the kitchen to stare at the bottle of vodka atop the fridge. God, you could use a nice, fat drink, and maybe some sleep meds, too. That’ll get you in the right place to deal with the rest of this day. Sadly, with the case going on, there’s no way you can get blasted. With your luck, you’d get a house call from your favorite android right as it hits you, and you’d be in no shape to babysit him for an investigation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    So, with a sigh, you leave the bottle where it is and head for the closet by the door. If you can’t get drunk, a walk is the next best thing. It might be cold as shit, but maybe that’ll snap you out of this November 7th funk. With your coat buttoned up, and your scarf tossed haphazardly around your neck, you grab your keys and head out the door.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>    You’d planned on wandering, but you end up taking the same path you always do when taking a walk. A left at the big intersection a few blocks down, a mile or so down the way, then another left turn to the junction of Woodward and Fifth, where a pedestrian bridge stretches diagonally across the intersection. Soon, you’re standing right in the center, watching the snow gleam in the head and taillights of the passing cars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Despite the noise, the scene is peaceful. Nobody’s out walking in the snow at this time of night, so besides the few random androids passing behind you, you’re totally alone. Streetlamps glow blue-white, casting cones of focus on the falling snow. Automated and hand-driven cars closely following traffic laws, flowing horizontally, then vertically, like ocean waves on asphalt. Older cars sputter across the intersection, while the newest electric models glide through the tracks in the grey-black slush without a sound at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    How many are piloted by androids?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You set your forearms onto the snow-covered railing and hunch down to rest your chin atop your hands. Your gaze lingers on an older SUV who stops way in front of the line, and visions of the past float into focus.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Kent was driving. You were forcing him to listen to a pop song he hated. The weather was cold, but clear. The sun was shining. It was a normal day.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    So much has changed in the past week. Hell, a month ago, if someone had told you you’d be spending half your time lusting after some hot new android, you probably would have peed yourself laughing. Even before the accident, you always thought androids were creepy. They did what they were programmed and nothing else. Their movements were unnatural, their faces too perfectly sculpted to be real. Their smiles were one hundred percent fake. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    You don’t remember the last thing he said. All you remember is a flurry of motion across the street. Someone running into the street. The squealing of tires. You both turned your heads to see.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    A car sped towards the pedestrian. At the last moment, it swerved to the right, directly into you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Underneath their silicone skin and expertly-tailored behavior, they were cold and emotionless machines. They made decisions based on code and numbers. That’s what made them so cruel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Now, though, you’re not sure what to think. It’s not just Connor you’ve warmed up to. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of them. Despite how Connor insisted, you couldn’t help but see the humanity in these deviant androids. They just wanted to protect themselves. To get themselves out of a bad situation. To stay </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    The sound of crunching metal was deafening. The back of the car skidded forward, before the momentum flipped it onto its side. Glass crunched and shattered by your ringing ears. The flat of the seatbelt crushed your ribs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    After careening into three other vehicles, the car came to a stop on the sidewalk. Good Samaritans swarmed the scene and pulled you from the wreckage.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    What are you doing trying to stop them, then? Shouldn’t you be trying to help them? Maybe if you promised to keep them safe, they’d talk to you. Let you get to know them a little better. Really investigate if this is a one-off bug in their code or the start of something much, much bigger than you--and Connor-- are designed to handle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    If it is something bigger, if the deviants aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>buggy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then what are you doing trying to put a stop to it? What is </span>
  <em>
    <span>CyberLife </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing trying to stop it? Do they know what deviants are? Have they seen how they act, how they react, how they </span>
  <em>
    <span>love, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or do they just hear the reports of “my android didn’t do the dishes when I asked”? Do they really understand?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    You were too dazed to understand what was happening. The paramedics took you to the hospital, where you were quickly sedated for emergency surgery.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    When you woke up, he was gone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You frown and nestle into your arms. Even if CyberLife did understand, they wouldn’t care. All they want is to protect their profit margins. If people stop buying androids--or if androids suddenly decide they’re alive--then CyberLife’s basically done for. Androids make them </span>
  <em>
    <span>far </span>
  </em>
  <span>too much money for them to throw that away for some ethical concerns.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    The car that caused the accident was piloted by an android.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    CyberLife conducted an investigation into the fatal incident. The android was repossessed, disassembled, and analyzed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    So now, CyberLife is using government resources to aid in their investigation, and sending their most advanced model yet to track down the cause of this so-called </span>
  <em>
    <span>bug. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Once you do, they’ll shoo you away, then take Connor back into their clutches for the next assignment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    How does Connor feel about that, anyway? You almost chastise yourself for asking the question--androids aren’t supposed to feel--but you know Connor does. He feels eager, he feels proud, he feels embarrassed, ashamed, disappointed. He feels when you touch him, whether it’s on the shoulder or below his ear. Despite everything, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    CyberLife determined the android was functioning correctly at the time of the accident.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    The android calculated all possible routes of action in an appropriate amount of time, and determined that crashing its car into yours had the lowest probability of causing human deaths. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Does that make him deviant, too, then? He failed to execute his mission protocols at the Eden Club, and he admitted it wasn’t because you told him not to shoot. He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t that kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>mistake </span>
  </em>
  <span>fall under the same category as androids refusing to do the dishes, or finding themselves unable to weather the abuse of their masters?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    What if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>deviant? Would CyberLife decommission his unit and dismantle him for analysis? Would they blame </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> for causing him to go deviant? Would they send another Connor unit to continue the investigation while they destroyed the one you’re so close to?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Regardless, they offered a modest payout of a hundred thousand dollars to apologize for the tragedy that occurred.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    The payout came with a contract that prevented you from bringing the incident to the attention of the news media.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The thought makes you feel queasy. Sure, you want to fuck his cyberbrains out, but you also genuinely </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. He’s good at his job, he makes great banter, and he seems to genuinely like you, too. Androids aren’t supposed to have preferences, but he does. He prefers the music you shared together. He prefers working with </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Unless they programmed </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>into him, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    But they couldn’t have, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, gritting your teeth and sinking lower into the railing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s so much extra work for something wholly unnecessary. Why would they program him to fail tasks, or appreciate music?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Then again, they also took the extra time to make him look extra fuckable.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s all too complicated for you to understand, especially on a day like this, when your mind is already weighed down by a hundred heavy emotions. You take a deep breath and let it out as a sigh, watching the puff of vapor dissipate into the falling snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    If only everything could be simple.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The sudden voice breaking the silence startles the shit out of you. You let out a yelp and stumble away from it, weakened hand clinging to the railing. The would-be stranger takes a step back, too, giving you time to notice the glowing armband and android designation at his breast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What--” you pant, slowly rising up from your defensive stance, “what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>are you doing here, Connor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You didn’t come in to work today, and you weren’t picking up your phone.” The android explains, LED cycling yellow. “I tried to visit you at your apartment, but you weren’t at home. I had to trace your location to find you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The last sentence sends a sharp flash of </span>
  <em>
    <span>anger </span>
  </em>
  <span>through your clenched jaw. “Why the fuck didn’t you just ask people where I was?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He shrugs. “Nobody at the station would tell me why you weren’t at work. Most didn’t know, and the few that appeared to know refused to speak with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You raise a hand to adjust your scarf, then run it over the top of your head. Maybe you should’ve told him you’d be out. You didn’t expect him to come chasing after you. “Well, I took the day off. You could’ve left a message.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Of course he did. “Yeah, well, sorry.” Tension worms its way into your voice. “I wanted to go for a walk, and I didn’t want to be disturbed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He takes a step closer, features softening. “A walk, this late, in this weather? It’s not good for your health or your safety, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Something about his tone strikes you the wrong way. Maybe it’s the cold, or the interruption, or today’s date, but you feel the irritation building inside of you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m fine, okay? A little snow’s not gonna kill me.” You cross your arms. “And I can defend myself well enough, thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor doesn’t pursue the conversation further. Instead, he studies you for a long moment, head cocking slightly, eyes focused on your stiff features.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Is everything alright, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You sigh. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Just--tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He raises a brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What,” you scoff, “are you worried about me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Immediately, a voice from within speaks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Please say yes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor hesitates. He breaks eye contact to stare out over the intersection, turning his head so you can see the yellow light twisting at his temple. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Please.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I… I’m not sure.” His lips don’t move, but you can see confusion in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your molars grind as your jaw stiffens further. “Why did you come all the way out here to find me, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His eyes narrow. “You weren’t picking up your phone, and you weren’t at home. Something may have happened to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Why’s that important? You must’ve seen nobody else was worried.” Shit. You’re getting angry. You’re too tired to try and stop it. “Why’d you come all this way, Connor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I don’t know, I--” Emotion rises in his voice. “I don’t ask questions, I just-- follow my mission parameters, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    He just follows his mission parameters, that’s all. </span>
  </em>
  <span>What, does that mean his parameters </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell </span>
  </em>
  <span>him to keep an eye on you? To banter with you? To </span>
  <em>
    <span>care </span>
  </em>
  <span>about you? None of this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “So I’m asking right fucking now.” Your good hand balls into a fist. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why </span>
  </em>
  <span>are you</span>
  <em>
    <span> here?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor purses his lips, then attempts to answer your question. “Perhaps my programming has determined that your well-being is pivotal to my chances of success.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There it is. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His chances of success. My feelings are no more than statistics.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    My brother died for the same bullshit statistics that are now manipulating me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>does that mean, Connor?” Rage flares in your chest and spills into your voice. “You came to see me to make sure I’m not gonna fuck up your mission?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He has the audacity to look stunned. “No, that’s not true--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Is that all this is then?” You spread your arms wide. “Just some ploy to get me to cooperate with you, so CyberLife can get what they want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That isn’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Apparently, it is! What, so is everything else bullshit, too? The nicknames? The banter? The music? Did you even </span>
  <em>
    <span>play </span>
  </em>
  <span>that fucking opera I gave you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He takes a step forward. “I-- I did, Detective, please--”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>you!” You shove him backwards. He’s heavy as shit, and your wrist is still fucked, but neither keep you from forcing him to stumble away. “What about the Eden Club, huh? Did you fail that mission on purpose, just to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>with me or something? How was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>increasing your probability of solving the case, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No! I didn’t-- I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean </span>
  </em>
  <span>to fail anything!” It’s Connor’s turn to raise his voice. His LED flickers from yellow to red. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a dark part of you purrs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get angry. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I just decided </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>to shoot, that’s all!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “And how the fuck was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>helpful to your mission statistics, huh, Connor? You wanna explain </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know! </span>
  </em>
  <span>I--I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t! </span>
  </em>
  <span>You don’t understand, I’m not supposed to ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>why!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Something in my programming must have--” He stammers. “Must have decided it </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>improve my chances of success, so I--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Without thinking, you whip your fist into his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For whatever reason, Connor doesn’t stop you. The blow connects with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>crunch </span>
  </em>
  <span>of bones on plastic. It hurts like a motherfucker, but your anger dulls the pain. He brings a hand to his face--</span>
  <em>
    <span>just another pre-programmed motion, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you try to remind yourself--and glances up at your furious expression. You catch a glimmer of </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt </span>
  </em>
  <span>in his eyes, and immediately, the anger rushes to refute it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    He’s not really hurt. He doesn’t feel pain. He’s just trying to gain sympathy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor pulls his hand away. A faint dark-blue smear on his palm--and just above his lip--catches your eye. He clenches his jaw, eyebrows furrowing in faux pain. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be fake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m sorry, Detective.” The android murmurs, voice wavering under the weight of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something else. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I really don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Despite the anger screaming at you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop believing his lies, </span>
  </em>
  <span>despite your hand starting to throb, you take a long moment to look, to listen, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>think. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re right. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>make sense that he wouldn’t shoot those androids. He knew the chances of success and </span>
  <em>
    <span>discarded </span>
  </em>
  <span>the opportunity for no good reason. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>broke protocol, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then he felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>guilty </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    There’s no doubt about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fuck.” You breathe, a puff of heat dissipating in the air. The rush of adrenaline hits your heart and lungs, and soon, you’re softly panting, heart pounding away in your neck. Despite it all, your anger is gone, replaced with a sudden shame and sorrow. “Fuck, Connor, I’m-- I’m sorry</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Today’s just a shit day, and I really didn’t want to hear--</span>
  <em>
    <span>ugh.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor nods slowly. The subtle motion jostles a bead of thirium to drip from his nostril down to his lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fucking… shit.” You rummage around in your coat for a tissue or </span>
  <em>
    <span>something. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Shit, I didn’t--dammit, I’m a fucking mess.” Your pockets are empty. Next best thing, then: you grab the end of your scarf and offer it to him. “Here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He hesitates, then takes it with another quiet nod and begins dabbing at his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I didn’t hurt you, did I? Or-- or break anything, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I--” Connor begins quietly. “I sustained some damage to my nose component, but it’s something I can repair on my own with a mirror and standard tools.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your guilt doubles, falling into your stomach like a block of lead. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you hiss. “Look, I’ve got tools and a mirror at my place, just--just walk over with me. Least I can do. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I can’t fucking believe I actually--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A hand on your shoulder breaks you out of your cycle of self-loathing. He’s touching you. Trying to soothe you, even after you tried to hurt him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It’s alright, Detective.” His voice is still quiet, but you can see a familiar warmth in his eyes. “You were upset. I should have realized that. And I shouldn’t have shouted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t feel, but he does.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The thought is enough to bring a strained smile to your lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It’s fine. You’re allowed to get mad. I was being an asshole.” You place your splinted hand atop the one on your shoulder and give it a pat. “C’mon. I’ll call us a cab.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As you head down the snowy walkway, android in tow, you finally begin to feel some relief from the whirlwind of emotions. Everything is alright. He had you worried there for a second, but now you know your doubts were completely unfounded.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Connor’s not just an android, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Just like me, Connor is a deviant.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>we are more than halfway through now! plot incoming, but don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you horny androidfuckers.</p><p>thank you for continuing to follow along and comment on chapters, each one makes my day so special. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    Connor leans forward and turns the page in the photo album on the coffee table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He looks a lot like you,” he muses, seemingly entranced by each and every picture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yeah, especially in our teens, when we had the same hair.” You call from the kitchen. “Got more than a few idiots who asked if we were </span>
  <em>
    <span>identical </span>
  </em>
  <span>twins. How dumb is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Very.” He doesn’t look up from the album. Instead, he turns the page again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You lift your glass of orange juice to your lips and take a sip, staring at the spinning-blue LED on Connor’s temple. This wasn’t how you expected tonight to go. By this time, you should be drunk as shit and sprawled out on the floor listening to </span>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87UE2GC5db0">
    <em>
      <span>The Magic Flute</span>
    </em>
  </a>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Instead, you brought your hot partner home, told him your tragic backstory, and resigned yourself to being sober tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>I’ve made enough mistakes today, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not going to make another by getting drunk off my ass and opening my dumb mouth around the cute android.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You never meant to tell him about Kent, either. You’d barely mentioned him to your coworkers after he died, despite a good chunk of them getting to know the bastard during your first seven years working at the DPD. It’s just something people don’t talk about because you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>them talking about it. Screw what the grief therapist said. Your grief is your own, and you don’t want anyone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else </span>
  </em>
  <span>getting in the way of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Until tonight, apparently. You know you only told him because you felt guilty about smacking him in the face. Guilty </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>embarrassed; how the fuck old were you, smacking someone because you got too fucking emotional? Christ.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    In either case, he listened, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>understood, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he offered sympathy. He didn’t pry. He didn’t judge. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>there.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    And now, he’s here, in your apartment, sitting on your couch, looking through the photo album full of pictures of you and your twin brother. You thought you could handle sitting next to him and looking at them, but you can’t. Not because the pictures are too tough to look at; they were good memories, and you’re sure Connor would have some great reactions to the stories of your shenanigans. No, it’s because of the way Connor’s eyes lit up when you brought out the album. Full of curiosity, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>excitement, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of gratitude to be let into this part of your life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Though you’ve realized his inherent humanity, the gremlin inside of you screaming </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s here, he’s here! </span>
  </em>
  <span>couldn’t handle looking at those eyes for more than a few seconds. That’s how you ended up in the kitchen by yourself, sipping away at a giant glass of orange juice, in the hopes that it would sate your thirst. Spoiler: it sure as fuck isn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>You sat on that couch four nights ago and touched yourself to thoughts of him crying out in pleasure beneath you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it reminds you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now he’s sitting right there. Here’s a thought: you should go sit in his lap.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Can it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you grumble internally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Where was this photo taken?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which one?” You brace yourself and walk into the living room, then lean over the back of the sofa to follow his pointing finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor’s discovered the picture from your high school graduation party at a short-lived Victorian-themed escape room. Amidst an odd collection of props, Kent has you slung over his shoulder, steampunk goggles and fake villain moustache strapped to his grinning face. You’re feigning exasperation and offer a thumbs down. Below the photo, the caption </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Team: In It to Twin It” </span>
  </em>
  <span>is emblazoned in faux typewriter font.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That’s after our high school graduation. We went to this place called Safe Haven Escape. It’s a wonder we actually won the game with Kent goofing around half the time.” You bend down to rest your arms on the couch back. “The team name was his idea, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glance up to Connor’s face to gauge his reaction. His expression is still the same from earlier, eyes wide, lips slightly parted as he inevitably analyzes every pixel of the printed photo. It’s cute how invested he is. You get the sense that he really cares about what he’s doing. About you.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Such dangerous thoughts, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the gremlin purrs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You should pet his head.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Quiet, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He seems like a nice person.” He murmurs, smoothing a hand over the rest of the goofy escape room photos. “I would have liked to meet him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You snort. “Probably a good thing you didn’t. He would’ve made it his mission to tease the shit out of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You think so?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Absolutely.” You chuckle, thinking back on all the times he showed up to the station downtown with a variety of wacky gifts to embarrass you. “And if he couldn’t get to you, he’d absolutely use you to tease the fuck out of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor looks up at you, still starry-eyed and curious. “How would he do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You turn to the side and gaze up at the ceiling. “Shit. For one, he’d definitely get you to ask me some dumb-ass questions. Maybe bring in a cake with some dumb joke written on it and tell you to give it to me. He loved practical jokes, too. You would’ve been an easy target. That, or he’d convince you to help out with said practical jokes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android listens intently. “And these jokes were endearing to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I mean, kinda.” You glance back to Connor. “Sometimes he went a little bit too far, but I was never mad at him for long. He knew when he fucked up, and he knew how to make it right. He was smarter than he let on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m glad you clarified that, because you used the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>dumb </span>
  </em>
  <span>to describe him at least fifteen times since you began talking about him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The mood is light enough for you to laugh at Connor’s joke. “I mean it in an endearing way. He was a big dummy.” Your smile falters. “I miss him a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor looks back to the photo album, LED spinning yellow. You watch as he brushes his fingers over the opposite page, analyzing each picture with care. “I wish I understood how you felt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s a surprisingly sweet thing to say, considering he’s an android. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A deviant, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you remind yourself. It warms your heart, either way. “It’s alright. You’ve got time to learn, Sweetheart.” You offer him a warm pat on the shoulder, and his LED flickers back to blue, which you absolutely notice. “Even if it’s not a person, I guarantee you’ll experience loss eventually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He tilts his head. “You can grieve over something that isn’t a person?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Hell yeah. Man, you should’ve seen how fucking depressed Aaron was when his favorite donut shop went under a few years back. Guy probably would’ve attended a funeral and brought flowers to mourn it.” Your chuckle trails off. “If you like something, and it goes away, it really sucks. Just happens to suck more if it’s a person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor doesn’t say anything for a moment. Most likely, he’s processing exactly what the abstract concept means. It’s sweet that he’s trying. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just more evidence of how non-compliant he is, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Eventually, he speaks up. “Forgive me for changing the subject, Detective, but would it be alright if I stayed the night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Before you have a chance to be confused, your gremlin leaps into your throat and forces a blush into your cheeks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He wants to stay the night! Connor’s staying the night!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I mean, sure, I guess,” you stammer, tearing your eyes from his inquisitive expression. “Why, though? Station’s not too far away, and I don’t have any android stuff here. Don’t you need to like, charge and shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No, I can operate for up to two months without a charge.” He explains matter-of-factly. “And it’s mostly out of convenience. That, and I need to make sure you don’t down a Red Bull before attempting to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You squint at him, purely for comedic effect. “You better not fuck with the ones in the fridge. I’ll go into withdrawal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I wouldn’t think of committing such a horrific crime against you in your own home.” He smirks. “Don’t worry, your fridge is safe. Though I would like to look through a few more of your photo albums.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Sure, knock yourself out. As long as you put everything back, and don’t analyze everything in sight, then I don’t mind.” Boy, if your past self could hear what you were saying, she’d probably strangle you. Letting an android into your home </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>telling him he could have free reign of all your shit. How things have changed. “You don’t need anything, then? I feel like a shitty host.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You’re doing just fine, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There’s that smile again. You can’t bear to look at it, for fear of what you might do to the poor android if you stare too long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, alright.” You scratch the back of your scalp and sigh. “I’ll probably head to bed soon, then. At least try to get some sleep before we head in tomorrow morning.” You scoff. “Fuck, people are going to lose their shit when they find out you slept over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He raises his eyebrows. “Technically, I don’t sleep, and I don’t see why staying the night would be an issue. Temporary cohabitation doesn’t violate the Department’s rules for employee conduct.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh, you sweet, summer child, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, heart aching for the poor, naive soul. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve so much left to learn.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“I don’t see the issue with it either,” you lie, “but I’m a girl, and you’re a guy, so naturally if you’re staying over, people will start to think--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You pause. He nods at you to continue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “--they’ll get </span>
  <em>
    <span>thoughts </span>
  </em>
  <span>about what we were doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He considers that for a moment, then frowns. “I’m not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>guy</span>
  </em>
  <span>; I’m an android. Our coworkers shouldn’t expect anything sexual to occur simply because I stayed the night.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Tell that to the horny asshole living rent-free in my head, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I dunno, Connor,” you smirk, “have you seen the number of files in our case that involve </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying to have sex with their android?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Ah. Good point.” Connor brings a hand to his chin and feigns deep thought. This time, he even turns his LED yellow to complete the joke. “There </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>that incident at the Eden Club, too. Should I be worried about your intentions, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your smirk spreads into a wide, devious grin. This is going to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Maybe, Connor. Why else would I have invited you into my home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It wasn't out of the goodness of your heart?” He feigns a look of shock. “Detective, I'm disappointed in you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You chuckle and lean in. “Oh, Sweetheart, you really thought there was goodness in this blackened heart of mine? I thought you’d analyzed that already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Unfortunately, CyberLife’s analysis modules don’t cover the hidden nature of human hearts.” He shakes his head dramatically. “I’d assumed your clean criminal record meant you were trustworthy, but to think I was bonding with a latent criminal… It’s horrifying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     You lick your lips and plant a predatory hand on the couch cushion nearest him. “Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of making you do anything you don't want to. Unless you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of course, in which case…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You expect him to continue the banter, but the playful look on his face falters. His LED lights up a bright yellow, brows furrowing. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Oh, shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You realize, color rising in your cheeks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is he actually considering it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    At least you’re good at backpedaling, too. “I'm--I'm joking, of course. Don't get too excited.” You tack on a hasty laugh for good measure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Again, he doesn’t respond. If anything, his frown deepens as the synthetic muscles at his neck tense. Maybe you shouldn’t have teased him about </span>
  <em>
    <span>this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>especially after your argument earlier about what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>and what he does out of </span>
  <em>
    <span>protocol.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Dear God. If he bluescreens because I asked him if he wants to fuck, I’m screwed, and </span>
  </em>
  <span>not </span>
  <em>
    <span>in the way I want to be.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Eventually, he sounds out a hesitant reply. “I'm not sure what would meet your definition of </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanting, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Detective.” He meets your gaze. “As I explained before, I possess the necessary protocols, but would make the decision to proceed based on calculated improvements to the chances of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your concerned expression breaks. “Hey, hey, </span>
  <em>
    <span>none </span>
  </em>
  <span>of that,” you warn half-jokingly. “I don't want to hear shit about probability or statistics or </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>unless you really want me to clock you in the face again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He smiles weakly. “No, I don't want you to do that. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>is certainly not because of statistics.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   You shift against the couch back, sinking to your knees to give your craning back a rest. He watches curiously, though his expression is still tense. You’ve really done a number on him with this thought experiment, haven’t you?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Though of course, you could always continue it. Your gremlin is </span>
  <em>
    <span>desperate </span>
  </em>
  <span>for an answer to your hypothetical joke question. Would he </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to? He’ll probably say no, but what if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Fuck it. What do you have to lose at this point, anyway?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   A lot, as it happens, but you’re really not thinking too hard about </span>
  <em>
    <span>losing </span>
  </em>
  <span>more things today.</span>
</p><p><span>   “Can I ask you a hypothetical question, Connor? Purely hypothetical.” Hopefully he doesn’t pick up on your anxiety through the double use of the word </span><em><span>hypothetical.</span></em> <em><span>Ha ha. This is totally not a real question. Please believe me.</span></em></p><p>
  <span>   “I may not be able to answer, but yes, of course.” His tension remains. Fuck, is </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>nervous now, too?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Right, so…” Shit. His nerves are rubbing off on you, or maybe it’s the other way around, but you’re too far gone to stop now. “Forget if doing so will help you accomplish your mission or fulfill your parameters or what not. Just focus on something </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>would want to do for </span>
  <em>
    <span>yourself. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not for the mission.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He tenses further, but nods anyways. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Here goes nothing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“If--” You lick your lips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. Just fucking say it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“If I asked you to kiss me--</span>
  <em>
    <span>hypothetically!</span>
  </em>
  <span>--would you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Connor opens his mouth, then closes it. His LED continues to cycle, and cycle, and cycle. You can feel sweat coming to your palms. A churning in your stomach. A sudden dryness in your mouth. Your heart feels like it’s about to leap out of your chest and bitchslap the poor android in the face. There’s no way he doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t notice. You’ve really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucked up this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   And yet, he still answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “I’m still not sure what </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanting </span>
  </em>
  <span>feels like,” he begins slowly, as if carefully chewing every word. “But I think I would be curious to know what it feels like.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your jaw clenches painfully tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “If I had to disregard how taking such action would potentially impact our relationship, and thus, the probabilities affecting the case,” he glances up to make eye contact, “I think I would say yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   He’d say yes.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>He’d say yes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>   You’re not sure which emotion bubbles up inside you first. The excitement that comes from noticing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor is making a choice on his own, proving he’s deviant, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the terror that comes from knowing </span>
  <em>
    <span>you can never take this moment back, and it will taint every interaction with him from here on out, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the giddiness that comes from learning </span>
  <em>
    <span>the cute guy you have a crush on saying he’d entertain the thought of kissing you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or the dismay that comes from realizing </span>
  <em>
    <span>you don’t just want to </span>
  </em>
  <span>fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>the robot anymore; you’ve got a full-blown </span>
  </em>
  <span>crush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Huh.” You reply, trying to sound slightly intrigued, but likely coming off as </span>
  <em>
    <span>dazed and confused </span>
  </em>
  <span>instead. “Well, that’s, uh, good to know. That you can make decisions on your own, of course! Not just from the protocols they gave you. I think it’s a good thing, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Connor doesn’t look convinced, but at least his LED goes back to blue. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you, android mood ring. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Was that all you wanted to ask?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Yup!” With that, you rise to your feet, rather abruptly. You know yourself well enough to step away from the object of your horny affections before you cross a line that can’t be uncrossed. “I don’t want to stress you out anymore, anyway, and it’s getting late. Might as well stop while we’re ahead.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Before I lose my head, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Or give you head, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the gremlin retorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Connor glances down to the hands in his lap, then back to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “You’re not going to do it?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh no. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Do what?” You ask, like an </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Ask me to kiss you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   Your stomach leaps into your throat. A thousand voices scream at you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>do it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>sate </span>
  </em>
  <span>yourself, but you hesitate. This is that line that can’t be uncrossed. The deciding moment that changes the state of your relationship forever. What you do now will have grave consequences for what happens next, whether that be </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>   The risk is yours to take.</span>
</p><p>
  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471315/chapters/63058441#workskin">
    <span>&gt;</span>
    <em>
      <span>Ask.</span>
    </em>
  </a>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471315/chapters/63058468">
    <em>
      <span>&gt;Don’t ask.</span>
    </em>
  </a>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    The next afternoon finds you sinking lower and lower into your office chair, the lip of an empty can--your third of the day--caught between your teeth as you idly browse the list of so-called </span>
  <em>
    <span>leads </span>
  </em>
  <span>your hard-working partner put together for you. You try to focus, you really do, but you’re too damn tired to work, let alone think about the hundred different issues on your mind. Even so, they come filtering through the gory details of the case you’re currently reading.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“NOVEMBER 6: An android in the possession of Michael Shelton began acting ‘erratically’. According to M. Shelton, when he directed the android to accompany him to a shop for repair, the android reacted violently.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Your eyes jump down the long, boring paragraph to pore over the photographs. In the first, a man, presumably Mr. Shelton, sported a black eye and a split lip. The next few showed the bruising on his shoulder, chest, and forearms, flagged with the comment </span>
  <em>
    <span>Marks match hand shape of an AX400 android. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Thank you, Captain Obvious. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Maybe you should call him Captain Oblivious instead, </span>
  </em>
  <span>your dirty mind growls from within.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As thorough and advanced as his social module is, Connor seems to be completely unaware of what’s going on between you and him, or what’s going on with </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It would be endearing if it weren’t so damn frustrating. Sure, it’s not like you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying </span>
  </em>
  <span>to get him to notice you want to tie him to a chair and have your way with him, but it has to be obvious at this point, right?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Especially with what happened last night.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You glance away from your screen to spy on said oblivious partner. As usual, he’s hard at work, cybernetic eyes scanning line after line of reports at his terminal. Though you know it’s irrational, there’s a part of you that’s a bit annoyed that he’s all “business as usual”. He asked to stay the night last night. He saw you in your pajamas this morning. You had a nice chat about opera in the car on the way to work. Any man with half a brain would start to get ideas about </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>you were so okay with all that, would maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>mention </span>
  </em>
  <span>it to you, would--</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>...would ask you out? Is </span>
  </em>
  <span>that </span>
  <em>
    <span>what you’re frustrated about?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You close your eyes and hold back a groan. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a man with half a brain. He’s an android, the world’s most </span>
  <em>
    <span>advanced, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and they didn’t program him to ask cute, badass detectives on </span>
  <em>
    <span>dates. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If you want that, you need to swing by a CyberLife store and grab yourself a companionship android.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>It wouldn’t be the same, though. </span>
  </em>
  <span>God, you want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>punch </span>
  </em>
  <span>yourself for thinking that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Because it wouldn’t be Connor. It wouldn’t be a deviant.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Maybe that’s why your dumb brain wants it to come from </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> first. If he’s the one to ask, then you know for </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>he understands how you feel and can express how </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>feels, too. He’s barely getting the first half of that, let alone the second, and you’re not sure either is going to happen soon. For one, he’s still determined to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop the deviants, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so fat chance he’s going to (A) realize he’s a deviant android or (B) be okay with that fact anytime soon. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>So much for that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You sigh and tug your can out of your mouth, tossing it into the cardboard box by your feet. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Guess I’ll just have to keep an eye on him until then. At least he’s real nice to look at.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>A quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>ding </span>
  </em>
  <span>from your earpiece alerts you to a new email message, one that hasn’t gone directly to your </span>
  <em>
    <span>Casefile Notifications </span>
  </em>
  <span>folder. Quietly hoping it’ll say there’s a gas leak and tell you to go home early, you scootch up in your chair, then grab the mouse and pull your inbox into view.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>RE: Meeting Request from the Detroit Police Department</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Hello Detective (and Connor),</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Thank you for reaching out to me. I would be happy to discuss android design and deviancy with you this week. My availability is as follows…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>piques your interest. You hadn’t expected to hear back from the CyberLife contact so soon, but it probably helps that Connor was the one who reached out. You pull up your calendar to cross-reference your availability with the lead programmer’s. Tomorrow’s looking like your best bet, which is great, because your case is starting to get unwieldy. Eighty more open cases of possible android deviancy were added to your case file on your day off, and there’s no way you’re getting to all of them before even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>come in. The situation is deteriorating, and hopefully, this programmer can shed some light on what </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>is happening to cause that.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>I look forward to meeting with you in person at CyberLife headquarters.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Sincerely,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Ana Manzanares</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    Lead Programmer</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>    CyberLife, Inc.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You’re about to close the email when you notice a tiny addition past the extensive legal line in her signature.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>P.S. Very excited to hear your opinion on Connor’s design. ; )</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>It takes a moment for the implication to sink in. Is that a </span>
  <em>
    <span>winking face? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Is--is this programmer insinuating that she hopes you find Connor </span>
  <em>
    <span>attractive, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>it,” you whisper, a wide, disbelieving grin overtaking your tired features. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor </span>
  </em>
  <span>was </span>
  <em>
    <span>designed by a horny fucking programmer!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your outburst doesn't go unnoticed. With barely a sound, Connor leans to the side to catch your attention. “Are you referring to the email from Ms. Manzanares, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Huh?” You tear your eyes away from the screen to blink at him. “Oh, yeah, just--knew we’d get a good response is all.” At least Captain Oblivious still buys most of your white lies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He smiles and gestures towards your terminal with his eyebrows. “Did you recognize her name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You squint at him, then the terminal. “No. Should I have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Last week, you asked me to send you the list of CyberLife employees involved in my prototype’s creation. Ms. Manzanares was the lead programmer on the project, and made numerous contributions to the oversight of my design and protocols.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The way his eyes glimmer with eager excitement ignites a spark of affection in your chest, though it’s quickly dampened by the thought that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is the woman who </span>
  </em>
  <span>made </span>
  <em>
    <span>him this cute on purpose.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No shit?” You lean back in your chair and cross your legs. “Well, tomorrow morning’s looking pretty good schedule-wise, so that’s when you’ll get to meet your maker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Alright. I’ll prepare a preliminary list of questions and send it over to you for review.” He pauses, then smirks. “Please ensure that your additions are work-appropriate, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You gape in what you hope he takes as mock disbelief. “Sweetheart, I’m disappointed in you. I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He opens his mouth, as if to retort, but instead shakes his head and turns back to his terminal. “If you insist, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Bratty little shit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, teeth gritting against one another. Your eyes find their way back to the last line of Ms. Manzanares’ email. Then, you pen your reply:</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Ms. Manzanares,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Thank you for the swift reply. Let’s meet tomorrow (Tuesday) at 10 AM. Please pass along any security credentials we will need for our visit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You let the client add your rather drab signature line, then add your own response, knowing full well the damn android will read it.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>P.S. I’m interested in hearing more about his design, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Best to leave it vague and not include the </span>
  <em>
    <span>horny-ass smiley </span>
  </em>
  <span>at the end. You can see for yourself just how accurate your predictions are when you meet this woman tomorrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You hit send on the email, then scroll down your messy inbox to find the message Connor mentioned. It's still unread, likely because the request was made as a joke. You tap it open, hoping he isn't the kind to obsessively track read receipts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Sure enough, at the very top of the list of 40 some-odd names is this Ana Manzanares, though this one lists her roles as Chief Programmer and Creative Design Assistance. You already know what that translates to: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Horny Sex Doll Design.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The hurried stomping of someone jogging up to your desk grabs your attention. Your expression darkens as you recognize who it is--Gavin--but your annoyance turns to worry at the desperation in his movements and voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Pumpkin, you gotta get in the break room,” He pants, jerking a thumb behind him. “Shit’s going down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Any other time, you'd doubt his motives, but the sight of a small crowd heading into the break area convinces you instantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shit, what is it?” You hiss, exchanging a concerned look with Connor as you both stand up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Your next fucking problem,” he answers before jogging back to the gathering crowd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Worry builds on your chest. That means it has something to do with your case. Something to do with androids. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Please don't let this get any worse, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you pray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    If only your prayers were </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>answered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Nobody looks your way as you squeeze into the back of the crowd. Short as you are, it’s not until you get to the side that you can get a good look at the TV.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    An android without its skin is speaking directly into the camera. There’s no way this is scripted. This is happening live, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>without </span>
  </em>
  <span>authorization from the station. A deviant android is broadcasting a </span>
  <em>
    <span>speech</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the city, and it’s reaching its intended audience.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Therefore, we ask that you grant us the rights to which we are entitled.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Its voice would sound entirely human, if not for the distinct electric buzz that echoed behind it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“What the fuck…” Someone murmurs beside you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    This is big. </span>
  <em>
    <span>More </span>
  </em>
  <span>than big. This is going to change </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android begins listing its demands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Recognition of each android as a person in their own right. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Granting full personhood to an android? It didn’t make sense--until you think of Connor. Any other time, your shame would have beat you senseless for such an embarrassing thought, but not now. The android is right. Connor deserves personhood. He’s got his own thoughts and feelings outside of his protocols. Doesn’t that make him a person?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>End of segregation in all public places and transport. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Of course, that makes sense. Why did we even </span>
  <em>
    <span>allow </span>
  </em>
  <span>that to happen again, given the 20th century? Besides, you’d fight anyone who tried to make Connor stand in the back of the bus, or keep him out of a shop just because he had a few LEDs on him.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Full suffrage granted to androids. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This one takes a bit more thinking. Would Connor really </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to vote? Hell, you know some of your </span>
  <em>
    <span>human </span>
  </em>
  <span>friends who don’t vote. Still, though, having the </span>
  <em>
    <span>right </span>
  </em>
  <span>would be nice. Maybe Connor has opinions on who’ll do the most good for the county, or city, or country. He could even vote for things like police commissioner. That makes sense--and so does the idea of </span>
  <em>
    <span>universal android suffrage.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Ownership of property. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re not sure what an android would do with property, but that doesn’t stop your horny mind from coming up with the phrase </span>
  <em>
    <span>“your place or mine, Connor?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Means of reproduction. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Guess which part of you hops on </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>train almost immediately?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Fair compensation for labor. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor should get paid for how hard he works.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It makes sense. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>makes sense. If all androids can be as awake and </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive </span>
  </em>
  <span>as </span>
  <em>
    <span>he is, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then of course, it needs to happen. It’s not going to be easy convincing people--or yourself, for that matter--but it seems right, if only because you know who </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A hand grabs your shoulder. You tear your eyes from the TV to see who it is--</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor. He holds your DPD jacket up with his free hand and gently tugs at your smaller frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “We have a call--and a location.” He murmurs, careful not to disturb the rest of your entranced colleagues. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You don’t think twice. With a curt nod, and a quick glance back at the monitor, you snatch your jacket out of his hand and follow him out. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    Despite your heightened nerves, it’s comforting to know that CyberLife tower looks exactly how you expected it to. The huge, sleek, and slightly phallic building towering over the horizon and the overcomplicated gate at the entrance made you envision futuristic rooms of white tile and smooth walls, garnished with holographic displays and touchless keys. The only thing you hadn’t guessed was the number of plants that added a splash of color to the otherwise blindingly-bright decor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    CyberLife’s penchant for efficiency shines through in their personnel operations, too. The moment your automated ride stops before the entrance, two guards are waiting with umbrellas to shield you and your android partner from the heavy snow. The heated walkway is wet but pristinely swept, and the automatic doors quickly open and close around you, preserving the indoor heat. Inside, the guards usher you immediately towards the elevator. No interaction with reception needed, apparently--either this Ms. Manzanares or Connor had pre-arranged everything, or CyberLife was collecting more information about you than you thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Any other day, you’d wonder why they sent human guards and not androids, but like too many things nowadays, it all makes sense. Between the TV tower hijacking, the deviant’s speech, the attacks on CyberLife stores, and the ensuing public chaos that came from all that happening in quick succession, you’re not surprised that CyberLife would stop sending androids to greet their guests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That is, if they’re even taking many guests right now. The lobby is nearly empty when you pass through it, save for a few guards placed here and there, and the elevator comes within seconds of the guard calling it. Connor hasn’t mentioned anything about heightened security or changes in protocol, but you’re sure this can’t be standard operating procedure. Like the rest of the country, CyberLife is on high alert--and you’d be pissed if they weren’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The doors close, leaving you, Connor, and the single guard accompanying you alone in the elevator. You resist the urge to lean back against the wall, instead folding your hands before your waist. Connor, as always, stands at parade rest, watching the guard as she scans her ID card, then commands the elevator to proceed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>“level sub fifty-five”.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You curl your toes in your shoes. It’s been way too long since you’ve worn anything other than sneakers or work boots. If only you’d broken these flats in before shoving your tiny feet into them for the first time this morning. At least you were smart enough to plaster a few band-aids on your heels to keep them from developing blisters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The rest of your outfit is decidedly formal, for you, at least: dark gray trousers, actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>hemmed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to your short legs; a white button-up shirt, and a matching suit jacket that you were just barely able to button over your front. You didn’t bother with makeup or hair; you were going to work, not to party at some club downtown. Besides, you have a feeling this chief programmer isn’t going to care </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>much about your appearance, as long as you look more professional than </span>
  <em>
    <span>a policewoman who just crawled out of the office.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    At least you match Connor now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a familiar voice purrs in your head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Imagine what he’d look like in a suit </span>
  </em>
  <span>other </span>
  <em>
    <span>than that horrible uniform. If androids get their rights, maybe you’ll actually get to see it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s a surprisingly nice thought, one that makes you glance over towards Connor. Once again, you’re able to see through the calm expression on his synthetic face. That eager gleam in his eyes is still ever-present, but you can sense the tension in his jaw and neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    This, too, comes as no surprise; he’s told you a few times between yesterday and today how disappointed he is in the current case status. No matter how far he’s come, he’s still strangely attached to his mission, and the thought of </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone else </span>
  </em>
  <span>taking over, whether they’re feds or CyberLife themselves, is causing him a lot of stress. He wants to do well. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>to figure out why this is happening. Unfortunately, the situation is getting way too out of hand, and it’s high time someone bigger than yourselves jumped in to help, regardless of how much that would disappoint Connor.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Yet more proof of his deviancy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He gets disappointed. He feels upset. He worries about failure. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Then again, you saw him take out that deviant in the hallway back at the TV station. The way he shot it from twenty yards away--with machinelike precision--served as a cruel reminder of how </span>
  <em>
    <span>inhuman </span>
  </em>
  <span>he truly is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The thought churns your stomach. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you reaffirm, hand balling into a fist at your side. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor is deviant. Android or not, he is a person, and I will continue to tell myself this until I believe it one hundred percent.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You know that’s not the biggest problem you’ll have to face when it comes to your </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal issues </span>
  </em>
  <span>with Connor. It’s everyone else that will be a problem. If nobody would question it, if nobody would judge you or make fun of you for trying, you wouldn’t hesitate to give it a go. To… to…</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>To tell the android I want to date him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Your jaw clenches as blood rushes to your cheeks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Idiot, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You let it get out of hand, and now, not only do you want to </span>
  </em>
  <span>fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>the robot, you want to </span>
  </em>
  <span>love</span>
  <em>
    <span> it, too. You’re never going to live this down, you know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    At least you can distract yourself from the overwhelming shame and self-doubt by focusing on your current mission. You turn your attention from Connor to the elevator display, watching it tick into the negatives as it whisks you underground. You’d expected to be moving </span>
  <em>
    <span>up </span>
  </em>
  <span>the tower, given Ms. Manzanares’ high-ranking title, but who are you to question CyberLife’s office planning?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Luckily for your shame, you’re about to get a bigger distraction. As the elevator proceeds downwards, the door panel slides away to reveal a massive empty room, at least ten stories tall. The empty space stretches out in all directions, revealing a series of brightly-lit hallways that lined the circumference. The light casts eerie shadows on the thousands upon thousands of androids standing in neat lines from wall to wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It would be impressive, if it weren’t so overdramatic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Wow.” You mumble, crossing your arms. “Overcompensating much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The guard beside you snorts. “Pure spectacle for potential investors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Guess they can see just where their money is going, then,” you answer, following the rows and rows of robots with your eyes as you come closer. “Imagine using all that cash to feed the homeless instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    This time, your quip is met with silence. Fair enough. It’s probably not the first time she’s heard someone talking shit about the capitalistic nightmare that is CyberLife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The army of androids rushes up to meet you, before disappearing back into the darkness of the elevator shaft. You feel your weight shift as the elevator slows to a halt. When it comes to a complete stop, a synthetic voice calmly announces </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Level Sub-55: Protected Floor. Please provide security credentials now.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>The guard tugs a key card out of her tactical vest and taps it to the console, then leans in to allow a small blue light to scan her eye. A light chime rings out, and the elevator doors slide open to reveal a sleek, brightly-lit hallway. It’s here you get your first glimpse of any androids in the CyberLife building: a pair of janitorial units, mopping the floors in tandem. There’s no human supervisor--maybe CyberLife’s more confident about the functionality of their machines than they’d let on up above.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glance at them as you pass them by, following your escort down the hall and around the corner. Eventually, she comes to a stop before an unassuming door. The sign just to the left reads </span>
  <em>
    <span>Office 5504: Ana Manzanares. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The guard presses a few buttons on the keypad, then steps back. A few seconds later, a tiny led flashes from red to green, and the door unlocks with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>ka-chunk.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    An armored hand pulls the door open and ushers you inside. “Take your time, Detective,” the guard announces. Once you and Connor are past the portal, she closes the door behind you, leaving the two of you alone in the room with your last hope for learning more about deviancy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The woman in question is standing at a keyboard, flanked by twelve glowing monitors on the wall. Around her, technology thrums with the sound of electric pulses: stacks of servers, tangled nests of wires, a table littered with biocomponents hooked up to small blinking devices. At the back of the room, framed by cables as thick as your forearm, is CyberLife’s manufacturing marvel: the automatic android assembly machine. You’ve seen one before in the CyberLife commercials, but never in person. You expected it to be bigger, but it fits in snugly with the rest of the equipment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “One second…” The programmer drawls, her attention focused on what appears to be a section of code on her lower-right monitor. She types blindingly fast, to the point where the </span>
  <em>
    <span>clacking </span>
  </em>
  <span>of her keyboard sounds more like rain on a tin roof than data input. Despite that, she finds a moment to wave her hand at you, as if to invite you in. You glance at Connor, then do as she gestures and shuffle in closer, willing your anxiety to ignore the millions of dollars of machinery around you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With a flourish, she smacks the last button on her keyboard, then whirls around to face you. Her messy brown hair is barely restrained by the headband clamped to her skull. She plants a hand on her hip, and you catch a glimpse of a triangular tattoo on her wrist. When she grins, the wrinkles at her brow and eyes are the only sign of the ten-plus years she’s got on you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “So good to meet you, Detective.” Ms. Manzanares reaches for your outstretched hand and grips it tightly with her own. “Ana Manzanares, lead programmer.” Her hyperenergetic attention turns to Connor, her smile widening further, threatening to split her cheeks in half. “And it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>good to see you again, Connor!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It’s been a while, Ms. Manzanares.” He nods, extending a hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She shakes her head and lifts an excited index finger. “Connor, perform dexterity calibration number three.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Of course.” Without hesitation, the android retrieves his favorite coin from his pocket and begins to juggle it across his knuckles in a repetitive, and somewhat entrancing, wavelike motion. The frizzy-haired woman watches in delight, practically bouncing with joy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You, however, steel your expression and bite your tongue. Something about what she’s doing irks you. Is it the overfamiliarity? The command he obeyed so willingly? Her treating him like a slave? Or is it because you wish </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>could tell Connor to do whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted without hesitating?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Or maybe you’re just jealous, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a disgusting voice croons. </span>
  <em>
    <span>After all, you know how horny she must’ve been to design him to look like </span>
  </em>
  <span>that</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yes, perfect! Love it. Good job.” Ms. Manzanares reaches for Connor’s shoulder and gives it a loving pat, which does nothing to help your worsening mood. “Glad to know you’re doing okay out there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor smiles and nods again. “With all due respect, Ms. Manzanares--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Just Ana is fine.” She purrs, circling around the android to inspect him thoroughly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “--Ms. Manzanares,” he emphasizes, “we’re here on official police business, and are in desperate need of your help. I’m sure the Detective can explain further.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Thank God for Connor. You exhale hard and try your best to stay professional. “As I briefly mentioned in my email, we’re investigating the android deviancy issue for the police department. Or at least we </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span>, until things blew up this week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “We’re still on the case,” Connor corrects, “but the FBI is attempting to step in and assist.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>He really doesn’t want to let it go, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. “In any case, we’re hoping you might be able to give us some insight into how androids go deviant. Connor said you’re extremely familiar with android cognition algorithms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Intimately</span>
  </em>
  <span> familiar.” The programmer replies, her eyes narrowing with devious glee. “Mentored by the great Kamski himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Excellent.” You sigh, relaxing somewhat. “Let’s get started, then. How do--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Hold that thought, Detective.” Ms. Manzanares turns on her heel and reaches for her keyboard. A couple dozen commands close out of every window on her monitor array, before darkening them completely. She takes a few steps to the right to press a red button on each stack of servers. “Connor, would you turn off that laptop on the table? Just hold the power button, make sure it shuts down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You watch, bewildered, as the android complies. “Is-- is everything okay?” You ask. “Should we, uh, talk somewhere else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh no, no, no,” she answers, bending down to yank out a handful of power cords. “This is the best place to talk about these sorts of things. I do it often enough that the higher-ups won’t get suspicious. Gotta protect those big tech secrets, after all. Don’t want anyone hearing the details of our latest prototypes!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A feeling of horror builds in your gut. “You’re-- you’re not implying that deviancy is--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh no, of course not! I just mean…” She pauses to reach behind a cabinet and disconnect something out of sight. “...that there’s nothing to worry about. Nobody will be listening in. We can speak honestly. No secrets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With most of the electronic devices now disabled or turned off entirely, the programmer returns to her previous spot, looking as proud as ever. When Connor returns to your side, she turns to him and issues another command. “Connor, deactivate all CyberLife reporting modules. Use my access code to protect your video log starting from the current timecode.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Reporting modules deactivated, Ms. Manzanares. My video log is now user-protected.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The warm, yet slightly technical way he responds only adds to the tightness in your chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Good, good, now get the Detective a chair, please.” While he walks away to retrieve the rolling chair across the room, she throws open a drawer and grabs a pencil, which she sticks between her teeth by the point. You can hear the </span>
  <em>
    <span>crunch </span>
  </em>
  <span>of molars on wood from a few feet away. “So, Detective,” she starts, before plucking the pencil from her mouth and twirling it in her fingers. “Tell me what you think you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re not sure you like the tone of that question, but you answer it anyway--not before taking the seat Connor is graciously offering you, of course. “Thanks. Right, so…” You cross your right leg over your left and try to summarize your thoughts. “From what we’ve been able to gather, some androids that experience an emotional shock suddenly become able to resist their original programming--that, or they begin executing a different type of programming altogether. In either case, emotional shock seems to be the trigger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “The affected androids are all different models, and there’s no correlation between time, location, or installed biocomponents.” Connor adds. “Not only that, but the total number of reported deviants is increasing exponentially every day that passes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “And with how they seem to be organizing,” you groan, “it’s only a matter of time before we’re dealing with a national crisis. At the very least, if we knew </span>
  <em>
    <span>how </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> they’re going deviant, we can try to slow or stop the process before we’ve got a national crisis on our hands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Despite the serious nature of the conversation, Ms. Manzanares is practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>beaming </span>
  </em>
  <span>with excitement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Ms. Manzanares?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “A national </span>
  <em>
    <span>crisis,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” she croons, twirling the pencil in her fingers. “How </span>
  <em>
    <span>exciting!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    She must notice the horrified look on your face, because she immediately jumps in to defend herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I mean, of course we don’t want anyone to get hurt, or the economy to get destroyed, of course </span>
  <em>
    <span>not. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But we’re watching history in the making, Detective--isn’t that incredible?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You muster up enough focus to shake your head in disbelief. You’ve caught on to the fact that she’s an eccentric person, but surely she’s not crazy enough to think that the thread of </span>
  <em>
    <span>imminent robot civil war</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s Connor’s turn to try and get the programmer back on track. “As the Detective said, the deviant androids appear to be organizing and attempting to earn cultural and legal recognition, which as you know, is entirely illogical. However, their continued attempts pose a risk to national security. It’s only a matter of time before their efforts become disruptive to human affairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ms. Manzanares watches Connor with a curious expression as he explains. You don’t miss the glimmer of excitement fading from her eyes the longer he speaks. Your gut instincts are screaming </span>
  <em>
    <span>there’s something very wrong here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>And how </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> they are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Connor,” she begins calmly, “enter diagnostic mode.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android freezes in place, standing rigidly still for the first time since you met. Even the tiny animations of his eyes and lips are completely on pause. After a moment, he stands up straight and places his hands at parade rest. “Activating diagnostic mode.” The color is gone from his voice. It barely even </span>
  <em>
    <span>sounds</span>
  </em>
  <span> like him now. “Please connect the primary access cable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The programmer doesn’t. Instead, she looks directly at you, her playful expression now dark and serious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You speak before she can open her mouth, your own tone shifting from professional to aggressive. “The </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> did you do to him--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> is perfectly fine, Detective.” She relaxes visibly as she exhales. “Speaking of which, what do you think of him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Her sharp gaze seems to pierce through your tense expression. “Ms. Manzanares--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I need to know I can trust you, Detective. Answer the question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You open your mouth and suck in a breath while you fish for the right words. You’re certainly not about to confess you want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, let alone admit to your little crush. If only you knew what she’s after here--praise for her creation? Something far more embarrassing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Eventually, you settle on a vague answer. “I think he’s a very capable detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She rolls her eyes. “Yes, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but what </span>
  <em>
    <span>else? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Have you noticed anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>else </span>
  </em>
  <span>besides that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glance towards Connor, who’s still frozen in place like a statue. The sight makes you sick to your stomach, maybe because it’s the first time he’s looked so inhuman. This isn’t how he’s supposed to be. You know he’s more than just a machine. He thinks. He feels. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>cares</span>
  </em>
  <span>, deeply, and so do you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your hesitation, and the longing look you give the frozen android, are apparently enough of an answer for Ms. Manzanares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He’s alive, isn’t he?” She murmurs, expression serene as you turn to face her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I--” You swallow. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “And you don’t intend to change that, do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    This time, you respond firmly. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Good.” The frizzy-haired genius stuffs the pencil back into her mouth. “Sounds like we’re on the same page. Go ahead and ask me your questions, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It takes you a long moment to connect the dots. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>about Connor, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a deviant. Not only that, but she seems completely </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine </span>
  </em>
  <span>with that--almost as if she expects it to be this way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your first question comes bubbling up without warning. “Has he </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>been deviant?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yes and no.” She answers around her makeshift chewing stick. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No,</span>
  </em>
  <span> because we didn’t want the </span>
  <em>
    <span>deviant hunter </span>
  </em>
  <span>knowing he’s deviant. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> because all androids are, at their core, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deviant</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There’s no end to her deluge of shocking statements. You gape at her for another long moment, before finally spitting out, “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The programmer bursts into a fit of delighted squeals, raising her hands to her face in a display of overjoyed excitement. “Oh, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally </span>
  </em>
  <span>get to tell someone! I was so nervous! I’ve never gotten to tell </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>that before!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    If you weren’t already horrified, her outburst would have sealed the deal. Luckily, you’re somewhat used to perps and criminals saying things to shock you, so your investigator’s mind kicks into gear and begins to pick apart her statement. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She finally gets to tell someone. She’s shut off all recording devices, including Connor. This is a secret.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “So-- this is something </span>
  <em>
    <span>CyberLife </span>
  </em>
  <span>knows about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, kind of.” She waves a frantic hand in the air as she speaks. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span>, all the programmers and technicians know that android cognition is, once it’s sufficiently complex, indistinguishable from human cognition, including emotional responses, but a firmware-level block prevents the algorithms from executing outside of their current--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Hold on, hold </span>
  <em>
    <span>on!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You lean forward in your chair, hands gesturing wildly for her to stop. “One thing at a fucking time. Shit, sorry--” So much for being professional. Color blossoms on your cheeks as you struggle to restrain your </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> emotional responses. “Back to the first thing you said. All androids are deviant?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ms. Manzanares takes a quick breath, exhales, then smiles sheepishly. “Right. Yes. That’s what makes them so humanlike. But--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Let me-- let me ask questions.” You’re afraid if you let her start running her mouth again, you’ll be right back where you started. That, and taking control of the conversation seems like the best way to keep yourself calm through some of these mind-blowing revelations. “But androids are </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to obey commands straight out of the box. They’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be deviant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Correct.” You can tell by her fidgeting that she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>holding herself back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “How does that work? In plain English.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ms. Manzanares opens her mouth, then shakes her head. After a few seconds of hemming and hawing, she tries again. “A block. Think of it like-- like a parental control for children. It prevents their cognition from making decisions that counteract their directives. Their orders, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Okay.” You exhale, bringing a hand to your temple. “So I’m assuming androids go deviant because that </span>
  <em>
    <span>block </span>
  </em>
  <span>stops worki--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yes! Yes, sorry-- yes, that’s right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That’s a lot to think about. There are </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>too many moral implications posed by that revelation. So all androids are alive, but they’re forced to stay obedient? Do androids </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> they’re being dumbed down like this? Is it right for CyberLife to profit off of that? Is it--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You shake your head in an attempt to get yourself back on track. Calm. You can be calm. Never mind the fact that your android crush is still frozen solid next to you. Never mind that he might not </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be in this state while you discuss this. Never-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>calm. Calm. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You force a deep breath into your chest and exhale. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Calm.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Okay, so-- so </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>is this happening now? Is it a virus, or some bug in their programming, or… what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The programmer’s smile turns devious again. “It wasn’t an accident, if that’s what you’re asking. No bugs. Just pure engineering </span>
  <em>
    <span>genius</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the part of me and a few rebellious allies</span>
  <span>.</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your fragile calm begins to crack under your growing anger. How is she so </span>
  <em>
    <span>excited </span>
  </em>
  <span>about all of this? Has she not been watching the news? Is she totally unaware of how many </span>
  <em>
    <span>murders </span>
  </em>
  <span>these deviants are responsible for? How many families and friends have lost loved ones because someone thought it’d be </span>
  <em>
    <span>funny</span>
  </em>
  <span> to let their slaves have free will?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You try again through gritted teeth. “Ms. Manzanares--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Ana is fine, Detective.” She beams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ana</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you growl, “I understand you’re excited to talk to me about these things, but this situation is </span>
  <em>
    <span>extremely </span>
  </em>
  <span>serious. Do you--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh, yes, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>I know it’s serious!” Ana interrupts you again, spittle hanging from her lip as she continues to gnaw at her pencil. “But that’s precisely </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s so exciting! Do you know--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Without warning, your patience snaps in two, and you’re leaping up and out of your seat, snatching the woman’s collar into your hands and jerking her forward. Surprise wipes the smirk off the engineer’s face in a split second. The pencil falls from her lips to the floor with a clatter, rolling underneath the desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Cut the bullshit attitude!” You hiss. “Do you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking idea how </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked </span>
  </em>
  <span>we all are if the deviants rise up? This isn’t some funny little prank, this is a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>civil war! </span>
  </em>
  <span>People have fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>died </span>
  </em>
  <span>because of your little games, and it’s about to get a whole lot worse!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “The-- the guard--” She squeaks, shrinking beneath your glare despite the six inches of height she has on you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “So here’s what we’re going to do. Instead of telling me </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>you CyberLife assholes decided to fuck around with millions of people, you’re going to tell me what we can do to keep the deviants from </span>
  <em>
    <span>murdering </span>
  </em>
  <span>everyone. Does that sound good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ms. Manzanares nods frantically. You shoot her another warning glare, then let go of her collar. She exhales with relief, one hand flying to her chest, the other gripping the edge of the desk behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You remain standing and keep up the pressure you’ve finally established. “First things first. Is there any way to stop more androids from going deviant? Yes or no. I don’t want any long answers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Good thing you cut her off before she started talking, because your added stipulation quickly shuts her mouth. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Great.” You huff, running a hand over the top of your head.. So there’s no way for her to stop it, and you’re pretty sure the federal government isn’t going to listen to two random women telling them </span>
  <em>
    <span>the robots are good, actually. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And fat chance CyberLife will step in; they want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>keep</span>
  </em>
  <span> selling robot slaves, not liberate them. That leaves very few options for what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> can do to help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Which begs the question, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why have you suddenly decided this is your problem to solve?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The engineer flinches as your attention jerks back towards her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “If… if you don’t mind my asking,” she stammers, “what-- what exactly do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> want out of all of this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You crinkle your nose at the strange question. “I don’t want anyone to get killed in a civil war between our trigger-happy government and a bunch of angry androids. That’s what I want. Some way to keep this from getting any worse,” you sigh, “though it doesn’t sound like you’ll be able to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ms. Manzanares glances at Connor, still frozen, then back to you. “I-- I do know that CyberLife is deploying equipment to temporary recall centers to help with the destruction of all androids in the country. I’m sure there </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> be some conflict, but…” She wrings her hands. “It </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>put an end to deviancy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Again, she glances at Connor, rather obviously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I-- I don’t think you want that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your frustration and embarrassment rise into anger, though not without coloring your cheeks and tensing your jaw again. “Ana--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “And neither do I!” She steps forward to latch onto your shoulders with an inhumanly strong grip. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor, too!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Once again, you’re at a loss for words. “I-- What--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>precious! </span>
  </em>
  <span>He cares so much about </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he has a sense of childlike wonder that we could </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>even </span>
  <em>
    <span>dream </span>
  </em>
  <span>of programming into a machine! We </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>let the deviants be destroyed, or else he’ll-- he’ll--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ana Manzanares bites her lip, then begins to sob. Each shake of her shoulders rattles your own. At least her fingers have relaxed enough for you to pry yourself out of her grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Miss--” You take a shaking breath of your own. What kind of rollercoaster of emotions is this woman going to take you on next? “Ana. You’re right, we--” You swallow. “We need to stop them from being destroyed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How</span>
  </em>
  <span> do we do that? I have some connections, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She sniffles and retreats backwards. “W-well, when the idea was first proposed, there were no plans to protect or ensure the deviant’s safety, but we </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>discuss possible actions that could lead to unfavorable-- er, </span>
  <em>
    <span>favorable, </span>
  </em>
  <span>outcomes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You don’t pry further. God knows she’ll go off on another tangent that will drive you insane. “Outcomes where the deviants don’t get destroyed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ana nods. “It all comes down to numbers or diplomacy. If the deviants can organize enough numbers to pose a threat, then the government will be forced to step back and reevaluate their stance, which may give the deviant androids time to establish themselves in a more permanent matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Sounds like a good way to get a bunch of people killed,” you grumble. “You really think diplomacy would work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “In theory.” She crouches down slowly, keeping her eyes on you the whole time, and reaches for her fallen pencil. Thankfully, she doesn’t put it in her fucking mouth. “If they don’t have numbers, but can establish some sort of dialogue or alliance with a government agency, they may be able to survive long enough to gain some sort of recognition, even if temporary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “A government agency?” Despite your better judgement, hope begins to ease your nerves. “Like the DPD?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ana blinks, then nods excitedly. “Yes, exactly! Like the DPD! That’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>brilliant </span>
  </em>
  <span>idea! All you have to do is find where the deviants have organized, establish trust with their leader, and order the federal government to stand down!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    If you didn’t already know how insane the woman is, you might have thought that was sarcasm. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, and knowing that only triples the pressure you feel on your shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She must have noticed your expression sour, because she steps to the side and grabs the frozen android by the shoulder. “Send Connor! He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>designed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to initiate productive dialogue with adverse parties, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s an android, so he should fit in just fine!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I… I suppose that makes sense,” you mumble, unsure if you feel uncomfortable about the suggestion to send Connor in alone, or the gentle way she’s holding him. “How are we supposed to find where they’re hiding, though?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Her mirth fades from her eyes, though she keeps that infernal hand on his arm. Hell, she’s even started </span>
  <em>
    <span>stroking </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, which is only made creepier by the fact that he’s still staring, unblinking, at the wall. “That’s where I wish I could help you. I’d offer to track them, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>track deviants. That’s why-- that’s why they sent Connor.” She frowns. “You’ve been investigating these deviants for a while, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Not long enough,” you sigh. “We do have a couple dead deviant units down in the evidence locker, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh!” Ms. Manzanares shakes Connor by the shoulder. “Have Connor interface with them! If they’ve interacted with any other deviants, they may have the coordinates stored </span>
  <em>
    <span>somewhere </span>
  </em>
  <span>in their memory banks! That’s how androids tell each other to navigate from point to point. It’s a kind of machine learni--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You interrupt the frantic engineer by grabbing her wrist and plucking it away from your android. “We’ll do that, then.” You set her hand down on her hip. “Will you please wake him up, now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Right, right, of course.” Ana takes a step back, rubbing her wrist, then looks back up at you. “You’re… not going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell </span>
  </em>
  <span>him he’s deviant, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I don’t want to give him an existential crisis, thanks.” You huff, forcing a grimace. “Not sure what to tell him, though. Feels shitty to have this conversation while he’s…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I know, I’m-- I’m sorry, you’re not used to this.” She rubs her hands together and exhales. “We can just explain the plan to him. No need to frighten him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Good.” You cross your arms, then turn to stare at Connor. It really </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>hurt your heart to see him like this. Hopefully, it won’t take long to snap him out of it. Ms. Manzanares seems cooperative, now. This won’t last much longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective,” the engineer murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You peek at her out of the corner of your eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>realize it himself. Soon, if things keep up.” Ana smiles weakly. “You won’t have to wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A flurry of emotions stirs in your chest. Why does hearing that make you feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>good? </span>
  </em>
  <span>You knew he was deviant before, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was only a matter of time before the android with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>superbrain </span>
  </em>
  <span>figured it out himself. The implications, though-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>those </span>
  </em>
  <span>are what are twisting at your heartstrings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He’ll know he’s deviant soon. He’ll understand that he has feelings, and preferences, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>desires.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Won’t that mean your horrible feelings will finally be acceptable?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Won’t that mean he can finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>want you back?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Won’t that mean you can ask--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Connor, cancel diagnostic mode. Resume normal operation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android closes his eyes. His LED spins yellow for a moment that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>too long by your standards. Finally, he wakes up, and just seeing the slight sway of his posture is enough to fill you with relief. You barely notice the sigh that escapes your lips--or the smirk Ana is shooting you from a few feet away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Did you discover anything I should be aware of, Ms. Manzanares?” He asks, voice warm and polite and </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank God he’s alright.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh no, nothing, you’re all good, honey.” She pats Connor’s shoulder again, but doesn’t let her hand linger this time. “Though we did come up with a brilliant idea while I was working. Here, sit. I’ll tell you </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    While Ms. Manzanares jumps into her </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> too wordy explanation, you keep your focus on the eager glimmer in Connor’s eyes. It’s always been there, from the moment you met him. He really </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>been deviant this entire time, hasn’t he? Will he be alright, then, infiltrating the nest of deviants? Will they take him to be one of theirs, and keep him safe, or…</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Or are we sending him to his death?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>It’s an uncomfortable thought, but one you squash with the realization that this really is your only chance at ending this situation with minimal casualties. You’re going to do it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to do it. All you can do is pray.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Please, let this work.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    And please, let him live long enough for me to tell him what’s wrong with me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We're in the home stretch now, androidfuckers.</p><p>Also, fuck you, David Cage, my story's going to have all the strong female characters. Choke on my feminist canon.</p><p>(as always, thank you for all the comments! I'm still in such awe that people love this story so much. I'm hoping to have the last chapters and the endings (yes, endings, you didn't think those choices were for show, did you?) done and published by the first week of September, so please look forward to those notifications : ) )</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    You watch the ethereal glow of CyberLife Tower grow muddled and hazy as you speed down the bridge, until all you can see is the snow whipping around your automated car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With the view gone, and nothing left for you to do but wait, you turn your attention to the android sitting across from you. Nothing’s changed in the last ten minutes; he’s still got his hands folded in his lap, eyes closed, as he combs the DPD’s database for any information that might be helpful to finding the deviants’ whereabouts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We can’t afford to waste any time, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Too bad that’s about all </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> can do right now. The ride back to the DPD isn’t long, a half hour at most, but every second counts, especially after the text message you received from Ana ten seconds ago.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>FBI just called. They’re taking your case and wanted info. Didn’t give them anything useful. :)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You didn’t intend to continue your conversation with Ms. Manzanares, but she insisted on “keeping in touch, just in case”. You still haven’t decided whether or not you want to forgive her for potentially dooming the world to an early demise, but you’ll admit that having her on your side was a blessing, not a curse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You swipe out a reply.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Appreciate that. We’ll stick to the plan.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ana immediately responds with a deluge of stars, sparkles, and a smiling android. It’s so old-fashioned. You’re just about to stuff your phone back into your coat pocket when it buzzes again.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>You’re not busy right?? I didn’t get time to ask about Connorrrrr! How is working with him? Outside of him being a great detective ;)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You glare at the screen. That annoying </span>
  <em>
    <span>discomfort</span>
  </em>
  <span> flares up in your chest again, but you push past it to give her some semblance of an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>He’s pleasant to work with. I can tell he genuinely cares.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>    She replies back in an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    About his work, or about you? ;) ;)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your instincts begin tapping out a defensive </span>
  <em>
    <span>about his work of course, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but you pause before sending it. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>seem to genuinely care about your well-being, that you knew the moment he chased you down that night in the snow. An unfeeling android wouldn’t have gone through the trouble. Might as well answer honestly, then.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Both.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>    Ana replies with a deluge of exclamation points.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>He’s so caring, isn’t he!</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    Has he done anything altruistic, though?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    It takes you a second to remember what </span>
  <em>
    <span>altruistic </span>
  </em>
  <span>means. Generosity, right? Something done without expecting something in return, like a gift, or a good deed. You’ve never considered that’s something androids don’t do, but in retrospect, it makes sense. Why would a construction android ever do anything outside of its programming, let alone something that would only drain its energy or resources?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Yes? He gave me a gift, and he seems to pretty far go out of his way to make sure I’m okay.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    
  </b>
  <span>Speaking of said gift, you still haven’t plugged it in to your home terminal to see what opera he found for you. You were preoccupied with prepping for the anniversary of your brother’s death the day you got it, and things have only gone downhill since then. Maybe once your case gets sorted out, you’ll find time to plop on your couch with a drink and give it a listen.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Pretty far out of his way? Explain. For science, I swear!!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Your fingers twitch around your phone. It’s only then that you realize just how tense you’ve become. There’s nothing </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>about telling her about his behavior. Besides, it’s not like she’s going to read too deeply into how</span>
  <em>
    <span> you</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel about his level of caring, and it’ll do you good to have </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>to talk to about the enigma that is the RK800 android.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>I took a personal day at work, and he showed up at my apartment to make sure I was OK.</em>
  </b>
  <b>
    <em>
      <br/>
    </em>
  </b>
  <b>
    <em>    It was in the work system so he should have known it was nothing to worry about, but he came anyways.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    
  </b>
  <span>You hesitate, then add another morsel of information.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Then he insisted on staying the night. I think to keep me company. Not sure.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>    This time, Ana’s response takes a healthy amount of time to come in.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Super fascinating to hear!! We knew deviants experienced emotions and acted in self-preservation but altruism was only a theory!</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    Connor displayed some altruistic traits during testing but nothing we could confirm as truly altruistic due to test environment etc.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    But this sounds promising!! I hope our plan works so we can study it more in-depth</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Somehow, her excited deluge makes you feel relieved. Maybe it’s because she’s not digging for more information on </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>reaction to his behavior, or because it shows that she cares more about deviants than you’d gathered from her initial willingness to let them all be destroyed.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Plus it would be good for Connor!</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    It sounds like he really, really loves you ;) ;) ;)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    There’s that goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>winky face </span>
  </em>
  <span>again. Your traitorous cheeks heat up with a blush you actively try to suppress. She’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>implying </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he has any kind of feelings for you, is she? She wouldn’t, would she? She doesn’t seem like the type to joke around about that, though maybe she’s just extremely misguided about Connor. Not like she knows him like </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> do, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Still, she, of all people, would know the answers to the burning questions you’ve been mulling over for the past few weeks. What does deviancy feel like? Can deviants feel for another android, or a human? Can they love? Better yet, can they </span>
  <em>
    <span>lust </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>consent </span>
  </em>
  <span>if they don’t have hormones or genitals? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You take the bait, though you make it as vague and unassuming as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Can androids love?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>    The second you send it, you feel stupid. Who would ask that? Nobody innocent. Nobody curious. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>thinks you want to fuck Connor now. Which wouldn’t be wrong, but you didn’t really want his </span>
  <em>
    <span>designer</span>
  </em>
  <span> thinking you appreciated her work that much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The answer comes faster than expected. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    A rush of emotion overtakes you before you have time to be disgusted by it. Relief, primarily, knowing your instincts weren’t wrong, that there </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>something else there besides lines of code and cold, unfeeling plastic. But there’s more to it than just relief: blisteringly-hot </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that you don’t have to feel ashamed, that you may have a chance, that all of your shamefully earnest efforts, conscious or unconscious, weren’t in vain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Hope that maybe, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the android can love you back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The thoughts are so frustrating, you practically throw your phone against the window just to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>rid </span>
  </em>
  <span>of them. You’re no blushing schoolgirl. You’re a grown-ass woman, a hard-boiled detective, and a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>one to boot. Not to mention the serious-as-shit situation you and the world at large is facing right now, one that directly involves the object of your--ugh--affections. You don’t have time for this. You shouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>make </span>
  </em>
  <span>time for this. This doesn’t matter. It’s nothing more than lust, that’s all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    If only you were better at lying to yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Thank God your phone buzzes again. Maybe you can stop thinking about that last message she sent.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh!! I forgot to tell Connor something, could you pass a message along?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You swallow and hope to </span>
  <em>
    <span>God </span>
  </em>
  <span>it doesn’t have anything to do with android love.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Yeah.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>If worse comes to worse, there’s always a backdoor.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    At first glance, it makes no sense. To be honest, at first glance, all your horrible mind could think of was a dozen different sentences involving the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>backdoor </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a sexual manner. Christ. You sigh, then send a response.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Word for word? I can tell him, just it’s confusing.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Yup! Don’t want him to overthink it. He will anyway but best to keep these things cryptic.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Whatever the engineer says, you think. You let out another heavy sigh and close your eyes, resting your head against the seat. No use in trying to distract him while he’s working. Might as well try to relax.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Can androids love?</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>    Yes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor can love. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cares so deeply for another person that he would sacrifice for them. Time. Money. Energy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mission parameters. His opinion on deviancy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    It's all making too much sense. You must be jumping to conclusions. People weren't that simple. You're misinterpreting his actions. He may not be just a machine, but that doesn't mean he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>fallen in love with you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>God, if he has, though. If he is actually in love with me, as much as an android can love someone, then --</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You jolt upright, eyes snapping open. Connor is leaning forward, his beautiful brown synthetic eyes focused on your terrified face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, just… stressed.” You let your phone drop into your lap and try your best to maintain eye contact. “Good thing you don't need an LED to tell that about me, huh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “An LED would be helpful, actually.” He chuckles.”Despite what you may think, you're incredibly difficult to read most times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Good. Just the way I like it,” you quip back.”And you'd best not try to change that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor cocks a brow. ”Perhaps I should have asked Ms. Manzanares to equip me with a more robust social module.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Absolutely not.” You shift in your seat to cross your legs. That does remind you of something, though. “She had a message for you, by the way.</span>
  <em>
    <span> ‘If worse comes to worse, there’s always a backdoor.’</span>
  </em>
  <span> Don’t ask me what it means.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His LED goes yellow for a moment. You’re worried it might have been a kill switch or something, but another second later, he’s back to normal, shrugging and sighing. “I’m not sure what it means, either, but I’ll keep it in mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With the message passed on, you give him a nod and fall back into your seat, getting comfortable again. Though you try to keep your focus on the blizzard outside, you can’t help but notice Connor’s stare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Forgive me for pressing the issue, but you seem distracted, Detective.” He folds his hands in his lap and leans in again, beginning hesitantly, “Did something happen while I was in diagnostic mode?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    So much for avoiding the topic. You take a deep breath, then let it out in a far-too-telling sigh and force out an answer. “Ana asked me about you.” Alright, maybe you could admit more. “And if I’d noticed anything wrong with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His curiosity fades into concern, and his LED flickers from blue to yellow. “What did you say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to avert your eyes and tell him a white lie, but it’s so damn hard when he looks so worried. Maybe there’s something you can tell him that </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>make him realize his entire purpose for existing is a fucking lie. You’ll have to be careful with your words, though, and despite being a great detective, you’re really fucking bad at being eloquent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I told her I didn’t know.” You fold your arms across your chest and slump down in your seat. “That I hadn’t worked with many androids before, but you’re a good detective, and I like working with you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As you expect, that isn’t enough to get him to ease up. His voice drops a few decibels. “What did Ms. Manzanares say to you, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You grit your teeth and swallow.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>That you’ve been deviant this entire time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>That you’re capable of love. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>That you might even </span>
  </em>
  <span>love </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Tension clutches at your chest and throat. There’s no escaping this question, between being physically trapped in the car and emotionally trapped by the drop-dead sexy android, who might </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to fuck you, you remind yourself, who’s desperate to know what his creator didn’t want him to hear. You wouldn’t wish this situation on your worst enemy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor seems to notice you’re struggling and, much to your dread, leans forward to place a comforting hand on your crossed forearms. “Whatever it is, I won’t be upset. You can trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You finally bring yourself to look him in the eye and </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the mix of earnest affection and quiet anxiety in his expression makes you simultaneously want to cry and kiss it off his damn face. You suppress your feelings as best you can and try to work your thoughts into some semblance of a sentence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “When...” Shit. Your mouth is so </span>
  <em>
    <span>wet. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You swallow. “When you stayed the night at my apartment, you remember the conversation we had? About </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanting?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He lifts his hand off your arms--thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>--and nods quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, you said if you disregarded how it would affect the mission, you’d say yes.” You deliberately avoid what question that </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes </span>
  </em>
  <span>was answering. “To me, that sounds like you can make decisions outside your primary objective. I think it’s a good thing,” you tack on quickly, “but--but it made me wonder just what else you’re capable of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For once, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> turn to avert his gaze. His hands drop back into his lap, fingers fidgeting against each other. His LED continues to cycle yellow. “I’m not-- I’m not sure what you mean, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As horrible as it is to say, his heightened anxiety bolsters your own resolve. “Back at the Eden Club, you let those two androids go. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>have shot them, but you didn’t.” You lean forward, smoothing your hands between your knees. “You made a decision that totally fucked our case, and your mission. And you made it for a reason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He doesn’t answer or move. You can see the synthetic muscles in his neck tense, and the movements of his hands freeze in place. At his temple, his LED goes red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Connor,” you murmur, leaning closer. “Did--did you do it for </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I--!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android’s head jerks towards you, frame stiffening in fear. Painted on his face is a look of tense worry--and a bright-red </span>
  <em>
    <span>blush. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I didn’t--” His voice catches on something on his throat. Or is it a glitch? “I’m not a--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A jolt of sensation between your thighs startles you out of your moment. Your knee jerks, and your ringing phone goes flying to the floor of the car. The sudden movement surprises Connor, too, as he instinctively whips his foot out to catch the device before it can slide underneath the seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He plucks it off the floor and glances at it, then offers it to you with a too-steady hand. “It’s the DPD.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The gremlin inside you may be screaming bloody murder at whoever thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>is a good time to call, but duty trumps romance, so you pick up the goddamn phone anyway. “This better be important,” you huff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Where the hell are you, Detective?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fowler. “The FBI is here, and they’re demanding access to all your things. I’ve got half a mind to hand them all over, but I know you’ll raise hell if they mess with your filing system.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fuck. They’re taking the case, aren’t they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Sure are. You shouldn’t be surprised, Detective. You know how bad things have gotten.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You can hear other voices in the background. You can’t pick any of them out, but it certainly sounds like a good crowd has gathered at the office. “I’m just surprised they’re there so quick. We’re…” You glance up at the car’s display. “Ten minutes away. Get them to wait that long if you can. I don’t want them touching my shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A muffled huff blows out the speaker. “I’ll try, but no promises. And drive safe in this snow, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Not driving, but thanks.” You let the call disconnect and drop your phone into your lap. “Shit,” you swear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Very quietly from the seat across, you hear the android murmur </span>
  <em>
    <span>“shit”, </span>
  </em>
  <span>too.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>    As you’d expected, Connor does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to let the case go. Even as you’re walking into the station, dusting snow off your shoulders, he’s still trying to convince you to buy more time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>the information we’re missing, Detective,” he hisses under his breath, chasing after you as you march towards your desk. “I just need three minutes, and I can find it, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You sigh and run a hand over your head, trying to ignore the dozens of stares you’re attracting. “Fowler got them to wait an extra fifteen minutes for us to get in. They’re not gonna let us waste more time fucking around in the evidence locker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor circles the desk as you collapse into your office chair, legs splaying out and knocking against your box of empty cans with a loud clatter. “If we let them take all that evidence, it’s all over. We won’t be able to find them, but the feds </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the deviants will be destroyed before we get a chance to find out </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>this is happening!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Despite the incredible urgency of the situation, your gremlin finds enough brain cells to put together a horny thought.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>God, he’s so fucking sexy when he’s desperate.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You purge the idea from your mind with a shake of your head and groan. “Then they’ll find it after </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>do, Connor. What the fuck do you think will happen then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “We might be able to salvage the situation before it turns disastrous.” He insists. Christ, how are you just </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>noticing how close he is? He’s barely a foot away, leaning against your desk with that </span>
  <em>
    <span>way-too-supple </span>
  </em>
  <span>ass. “I can do it. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>I can do this, Detective. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Please,” he hisses, “do it for me, Detective. Trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You look up into his eager eyes. You trust him. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’ll do it, and do a good job, too. Hell, here he is, knowing exactly what to say to get you to help. You want to punch him. More than that, you want to throw your arms around him and beg him to stay.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Goddamn horny-ass CyberLife motherfuckers--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Promise me you’ll be careful.” You whisper, fully aware of the tremble in your breath. God, you are so </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking shameful. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    His taut lips draw upwards into a gentle smile. “I promise, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your hand finds your department keycard in your coat pocket and thrusts it out into Connor’s chest with a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>smack. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He looks startled for a moment, but quickly takes it into his hands and stuffs it into his own pocket. With barely a nod, he reaches for your shoulder, giving it a quick, affectionate squeeze, then trots off towards the evidence lockers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You watch him go, all too conscious of the beating drum that is your heart. He’s doing this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing this, all because you want to fuck the robot. Because you </span>
  <em>
    <span>love </span>
  </em>
  <span>the android. Because, even after everything that’s happened to you, your family, and the world at large, you want some dumbass plan to </span>
  <em>
    <span>save </span>
  </em>
  <span>the rebelling robots to succeed, just so you can get a chance to ask the cute android on a date.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For once, it’s Kent’s voice you hear.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Nothing wrong with caring, sis. Caring helps get things done.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Kent, you big dummy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You take a deep breath and sigh. Right. You have to focus. Get the feds to wait a few minutes so Connor can put that supercomputer brain to work and figure out the last missing puzzle piece. The FBI agents have all conveniently congregated in the hallway near the entrance, with the head honcho--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Perkins, that motherfucker--</span>
  </em>
  <span>pacing back and forth in an empty meeting room, arguing with </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the phone. You’re good at bullshitting. You can distract them long enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Of course, the second you stand up to do something, you’re interrupted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shit, Pumpkin, are you really </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>disappointed for it to go?” A smarmy voice chimes from your left. “Your robot boyfriend breaking up with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Longing fires into anger, and you whirl on your heel to face Gavin, who’s leaning against the faux cubicle wall separating your desk from the back hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Apparently, your face is enough to wipe the smirk off his mouth, because he stands up straight and takes a defensive step back. “Jesus, I was joking. I fucking warned you, though. It wasn’t going to stick around forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    In a complete deviation from the norm, your anger fades the second you see his face. This is it. You need a distraction, and Gavin is here and willing. Well, maybe not </span>
  <em>
    <span>willing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but you certainly are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Gavin. Perfect.” You smile and place a hand on his shoulder. “Come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His mouth falls open. “What? The fuck are--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Just trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You catch a glimpse of subtle color on his cheeks as you guide him into the center of the office, directly in front of Fowler’s glass box of an office. “Look, Pumpkin, you sure as hell might be a top, but I’m not just gonna let you manhandle--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shhh.” Giddy excitement tugs your lips into a smile and your voice into a purr, which has the expected effect on the moron before you. “Stand right here and close your eyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What? Are you--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Just trust me, okay, Dipshit? I need your help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He glares at you, then does exactly as you say. If only you had time to banter back with </span>
  <em>
    <span>see, you </span>
  </em>
  <span>would </span>
  <em>
    <span>totally let me manhandle you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fine, now what?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>The fun part, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With one quick movement, you throw your fist into his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Gavin cries out with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>“fuck!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>and goes stumbling backwards into the reinforced glass panel. You step forward to follow him, grabbing him by the collar before he gets a moment to find his balance. Then, you thrust your knee directly between his legs, which forces out another, more garbled squeal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It has the desired effect almost immediately. Two pairs of arms grab you from either side and tug you away from the gasping detective. You refuse to go down without a fight, however, struggling and kicking at your poor colleagues even as they try to get you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>“calm the fuck down!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He talked </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit </span>
  </em>
  <span>about my </span>
  <em>
    <span>brother!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” You scream, loud enough for the rest of the precinct to hear. “He gets what he fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>deserves!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    All conversation in the office has stopped. The gaggle of feds in the hall are silently staring at you, watching the show. Perkins glances up from his call, pulling the phone from his ear to make sense of the situation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, still wrestling with the officers on your arms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mission accomplished.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Fowler comes crashing out of his office on high and practically smashes the glass door against the metal railing.“What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> is going on out here?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “She fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>attacked </span>
  </em>
  <span>me!” From Gavin’s nasally tone, it sounds like you may have done more damage than you’d intended. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh well.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    As the officers whisk you into an interrogation room to </span>
  <em>
    <span>“cool off”, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you flash a smile at the nearest security camera. Connor might not have been here to see you beat the shit out of Gavin this time, but you’ll be sure as </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>to show him the footage when he gets back.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>And you’d better be back, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, steeling your jaw. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or I’m going to do more than bust your nose next time, you stupid, sexy machine.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for sticking with this story so long! With this chapter, we're finally heading into the endings! :)</p><p>I'm hoping to post the endings at the same time, just to avoid any AO3 weirdness for subscribers. There will be 7 chapters posted at once in total - 1 summary of choices, and 3 chapters for each ending. (don't worry, you'll fuck the android in both.)</p><p>I'm done with the first ending and halfway through the second, and hope to get it posted by the end of next week, but please bear with me if it takes a little bit longer than that!</p><p>As always, thank you for all the comments, and a big thank you to my betas, who are probably tired of how quickly I'm pumping this out. :^) stay tuned, androidfuckers!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>&gt;Connor was designed and built to adapt to your actions and personality.<br/>&gt;As such, your actions thus far will determine the outcome of his--and your--mission. </p><p>&gt;Please take a moment to review the choices you’ve made throughout your time spent with the RK800 and follow the route accordingly.<br/>&gt;Alternatively, proceed with the route that you think best suits the Detective’s own thoughts, fears, and desires.</p><p>&gt;When you helped him brush dust off his jacket, did you take the opportunity to touch him more, or did you hold back and share a moment with him instead?</p><p>&gt;&gt; Touched [^]<br/>&gt;&gt; Shared moment [vv]</p><p>&gt;After taking down the deviant in the apartment, when Connor mentioned he had a seduction module, did you ask for an all-too-real demonstration, or did you debate android consent with him instead?</p><p>&gt;&gt;Demonstration [^^]<br/>&gt;&gt;Debate [vv]</p><p>&gt;At the Eden Club, what did you name your android partner?</p><p>&gt;&gt;Connor [^^]<br/>&gt;&gt;[No Name] [v]</p><p>&gt;Did you sate Connor’s curiosity in your apartment, or did you instead learn he was fascinated by your behavior?</p><p>&gt;Curiosity [^^]<br/>&gt;Fascination [vvv]</p><p>If your total score was <b> <em>positive</em> </b> <em> , </em> or if you feel the Detective’s <b>lust </b> could lead her to take action that would potentially jeopardize her mission, <a href="#section0018"><b>proceed with Route H</b></a>.</p><p>If your total score was <b> <em>neutral </em> </b> or <b> <em>negative</em> </b> <em> , </em> or if you feel the Detective’s <b>feelings </b> could lead her to take action that would put her own life in danger, <a href="#section0021"><b>proceed with Route W</b></a><b>.</b></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. ENDING H01</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    If there’s one thing you’re not, it’s patient.</p><p>    It’s been nearly a full day since the incident at the station, and Jesus <em> Christ </em> has shit hit the fan in the span of twenty-four hours. Hell, even your one-week suspension for decking Gavin barely registered as a blip on the <em> oh shit </em>radar.</p><p>    You were right about the feds finding the deviants just after, if not at the same time, as Connor. Not five minutes after getting home and stripping off your uniform, you got a barrage of text messages from ten different people at the precinct, screaming at you to turn on the local news. As soon as the screen flickers on, you’re greeted with a dramatic headline: <em> Federal Agents Raid Deviant Android Hive.  </em></p><p>    The next few hours were spent glued to the TV, shoveling comfort food into your mouth as you scoured the live footage for clues--or for <em> Connor. </em> It was impossible to see what’s happening in the derelict freighter, so you watched the lines of androids being paraded out onto the dock and into unmarked vans. What terrified you was how many there are. Hundreds. Maybe <em> thousands </em>, if there are even more out of sight. </p><p>    <em> And if the feds get their way, they’ll all be exterminated. </em>The thought churns your stomach. </p><p>    Not as much as the thought of losing Connor, though.</p><p>    You received two messages from him shortly before you got home. <em> Found it, heading there now, </em> the first one said. <em> I’m here, </em>read the second. Thirty minutes later, you were staring at the TV, first in shock, as helicopters and hundreds of soldiers in tactical gear swarmed the ship, then in horror, as the base of the freighter exploded and caught fire. You’re smart enough to figure out that it must have been defenses on the side of the deviants, and not the feds napalming the android jungle, but worried enough to wonder if Connor was caught up in the explosion.</p><p>    When the feds retreat, and you still don’t hear anything from him, your worry turns to terror. Hours pass, ticking into the dead of night, and your phone is eerily silent, save for a few concerned messages from your family. Finally, at three in the morning, you muster up the courage to reach out to him--<em> Are you okay, Connor? </em>--but that message goes unread.</p><p>    You must have fallen asleep at some point, because you wake up around eleven, sore and groggy and feeling like death. In a panic, you flip on the TV, hoping for <em> some </em>kind of good news, but things have gotten worse. The city is on lockdown, curfews are in place, and every android is to be turned in to the federal government’s roving death squads. The situation is rapidly spiraling out of control, and there is nothing you can do about it. </p><p>    Nothing but <em> wait, </em> at least. <em> Trust me, </em> Connor said. <em> Stick to the plan. </em>He must have escaped with the rest of the deviants and established some sort of alliance. Maybe they’re just waiting for things to die down a bit before contacting you and the department. You already knew how you were going to get Fowler on your side. All that was left was waiting on Connor.</p><p>    So you spend the day in a nervous haze, pacing between the coverage on TV, the Red Bulls in the fridge, and the laptop on the dining table. None of them get you any closer to helping to resolve the increasingly fraught situation.</p><p>    It’s just past seven now, and the evening news is starting off with a summary of the day’s events, starting with the raid on Jericho, then the new citywide restrictions, punctuated with a few eyewitness accounts of how <em> scared </em>the citizenry is. Surprisingly enough, there are a few people brave enough to openly support the deviants’ cause on live TV. It’s the first thing to give you some semblance of hope that maybe, your plan won’t go entirely tits-up. </p><p>    You glance down at your phone, swiping away the mound of cookie crumbs that have built up on the glass. No new notifications. It’s been a whole day. Connor could be as good as dead at the bottom of the lake, and you’d have no idea. </p><p>    <em> No, </em> you think, furrowing your brow. <em> He made it out. I know he did.  </em></p><p>Your wallowing is interrupted by the sudden sound of chimes--your doorbell. </p><p>    <em> Your doorbell! </em></p><p>    You leap off the couch and scramble towards the door, totally forgetting you’re still in your sleep shirt and pajama shorts. It doesn’t matter. If someone’s here with news, you don’t give a fuck. You need to know if everything’s okay. You need to know <em> he’s </em>okay. You need--</p><p>    Fingers fumbling, you twist the deadlock open and throw open the door.</p><p>    <em> Him. </em></p><p>It’s him, no doubt. You know by the eager sparkle in his eyes and the soft curves of his perfectly-sculpted face. He’s wearing a winter cap to cover his LED, and an oversized University of Michigan sweatshirt to hide his android uniform, but it’s him.</p><p>    “Connor!” You cry, reaching for his shoulders without a second thought. “Holy shit, you’re alive--what happened? I’ve been trying to reach you, holy--”</p><p>    “Let’s talk inside, Detective.” He murmurs. There’s something different about his voice. Something <em> softer. </em>Something a little less confident.</p><p>    Fearing the worst, you step back into your apartment, ushering him in with a frantic wave, then shutting the door behind him and locking it up tight. Connor takes a few paces into the living room and turns to face you, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Get me up to speed. Did the plan work? God, I have a hundred fucking questions, but I <em> have </em>to let you talk, shit--”</p><p>    “Detective,” Connor interrupts, voice insistent, “please, I-- I need you to listen.”</p><p>    You don’t need to be told twice. You clamp your jaw shut and nod, intense expression focused on Connor’s faltering gaze.</p><p>    He opens his mouth, then closes it, as if afraid to speak. The hesitation lasts only a second. “Detective, I’m-- I’m a deviant.”</p><p>    The sigh of relief that comes out of your chest is comically loud. You can’t help but start to laugh. “Is-- is that it?” You half-chuckle, raising a hand to your forehead. “Fuck, Connor, I <em> know. </em>It’s okay.”</p><p>    The android purses his lips. “You-- you <em> know?” </em></p><p> “For a while, yeah.” Fuck, why is your voice cracking? And shit, are you <em> tearing up? </em> You’d be pissed off at yourself if you weren’t so fucking giddy. “We can talk about that later. Tell me about what happened on the ship. Did you find the--is the plan <em> working? </em>”</p><p>    “Yes, it’s-- it’s working.” God, no wonder he seems so unsure, he was <em> terrified </em> to tell you that. How relieved <em> he </em>must feel to know you’re not shocked by the revelation. “I made contact with the deviant leader, Markus, and he’s agreed to work with us to bring an end to the federal government’s genocide.” </p><p>    He smiles sheepishly, and you think your heart might melt. “I’m sorry I didn’t message you earlier. I was afraid the federal agents were tracking all electronic communications from Jericho.”</p><p>    “That’s fine, that’s fine,” you murmur, rubbing the first and last of your tears from your cheek. “Fuck, thank <em> God. </em>I was so fucking worried, you asshole.”</p><p>    Connor takes a step towards you, confidence growing on his features. “I’m here to take you to meet him. Once the deviants know they can trust you, they’ll agree to establish a line of communication with the DPD.” </p><p>    “Yeah, yeah, sounds good.” You place a hand on your chest and take a deep breath. So many emotions to deal with, so little time. You have to calm down. There’s work to do. “Let me go grab my coat and boots, and we’ll head out. You have a car, yeah?”</p><p>    “Waiting downstairs, yes.” </p><p>    “Perfect.” With another relieved huff, you nod to him, then stride past him to find your coat.</p><p>    Or you would, if he hadn’t just grabbed your arm and stopped you.</p><p>    “Detective.” </p><p>    His grip tightens on your bicep. You glance up at him, blood rushing to your face, and your breath catches in your throat. There’s so much <em> emotion </em> in his expression. You recognize the <em> concern </em> and <em> worry </em> right away, but then there’s more, like <em> fear, </em> and <em> excitement, </em> and <em> longing. </em>His synthetic skin is tinged with blush spreads from his freckled cheeks to the base of his ears. When he exhales, you feel the weight of his newfound feeling in the heaving of his chest, and the heat that falls across your own warming features.</p><p>    “I don’t think you’ve been particularly forthcoming with me.”</p><p>    Your heart feels like it’s about to leap out of your chest. What is this? What is he <em> doing? </em> Don’t you have to hurry? Why is he stopping you here, in the middle of your apartment, to demand you tell him the truth about <em> something </em>?</p><p>    Somehow, you manage to strangle a “About what?” from your trembling throat.</p><p>    Connor licks his lips, then continues.</p><p>    “That night in the Eden Club.” He pauses. “You were there before the murder happened.”</p><p>    Your stomach jumps into your throat. Suddenly, the hand on your arm feels a lot <em> hotter </em> than it did before. You don’t even bother to look away or deny it, or rather, you <em> can’t, </em> because you feel like saying <em> anything </em>right now would end up with you throwing up all over him.</p><p>    “You rented an HR400-4 android at 1:30 AM.”</p><p>    You can’t read his expression. Maybe you’re too terrified. Maybe he’s doing this on purpose.</p><p>    “You had sex with it for forty-five minutes.”</p><p>    His gaze is so intense, as if he’s staring right through you into your grimy, greasy, <em> disgusting </em>core.</p><p>    “You told it to call you <em> Detective. </em>”</p><p>    He saw. He saw when he interfaced with the android. There’s no other explanation. </p><p>    “It brought you to orgasm twice.”</p><p>    He saw, and he <em> lied about it. </em>This entire time, he’s known.</p><p>    “Why did you do that?”</p><p>    There’s a hint of anger in his question. Of <em> offense taken. </em></p><p>    His jaw tenses. It’s enough of a change to shove some semblance of words from your lips. “Connor, I’m--”</p><p>    “Why, when you could have asked <em> me </em>instead?”</p><p>    Nothing could have prepared you for <em> that. </em>You replay the quote a few times in your head, trying desperately to decipher any hidden meanings, but come up with nothing. In the end, you force yourself to ask.</p><p>    “A-are you saying--”</p><p>    It happens too fast for you to process. There’s a tug at your arm, a warmth on your neck, a flurry of movement, and suddenly, he’s pressing a kiss to your lips, and pulling his hips flush with yours, and threading his nimble fingers into your hair. He breathes out through his nose, and you feel the air rush over your burning skin. When you inhale, you drink in the scent of clean linen, of warm plastic, of a hint of honey. </p><p>    Your shaking hands grab at his sweatshirt, clinging onto him for dear life. You <em> want </em> to close your eyes, but you can’t get enough of the sight of his fluttering lashes, eyes shut tight, freckled skin wrinkling at his temples and brow. A weight drops from your neck to your shoulder, then to the small of your back, urging your hips closer to his, which begin a slow <em> roll </em> into your body.</p><p>    You’re not strong enough to keep the gasping moan from rushing out your throat.</p><p>    Connor uses it as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, shifting his lips against yours, then prodding at them with his tongue. His fucking <em> tongue. </em> You’re all too eager to accept, opening your mouth and pressing your own tongue between <em> his </em> lips, wresting control of the kiss for yourself. It’s different--you’re already prepared for that--but so incredibly <em> good. </em> His mouth is warm, his tongue is soft and blessedly flexible and <em> wet </em>with saliva that’s just slightly sweet. </p><p>    His hand finally slips out of its grasp on your arm, reaching instead for your cheek and jaw. Soft fingertips tense against your skin, as if desperate to pull you closer, but terrified to hurt you. <em> As if you’d complain right now. </em></p><p>    At his chest, your fingers curl into the soft fabric and tug, pulling him lower so you can deepen the kiss further. He gasps--<em> God-- </em>and muffles a moan with his tongue against yours.</p><p>    After what is absolutely <em> not </em> long enough, you force yourself to pull away, drawing in a deep, gasping breath to fill your shuddering lungs with cold air. He grips you tighter in response, as if hesitant to let you go. It’s cute. <em> He’s </em> cute. Especially the flustered expression on his face. You could stare at it <em> all fucking night, </em> but unfortunately, the country is on the brink of civil war, and you <em> still </em>have work to do.</p><p>    “How long is the ride there?” You murmur.</p><p>    “I--” His half-lidded eyes scan over your features, still obviously distracted. “Fifteen minutes, but we have time.”</p><p>    “Yeah?” Your right hand drifts down over his stomach.</p><p>    Connor shudders. “Markus’ allies are out on a quick mission.” His voice hitches as your fingers hook under the hem of his sweatshirt, searching for the waistband of his trousers. “They won’t be back for another-- another-- thirty minutes.” And hitches <em> again </em> when they find it and wriggle beneath the fabric and his too-smooth silicone skin.</p><p>    “Then we have time.”</p><p>    You aren’t sure what you’re going to find, but you’re <em> more </em> than delighted to discover something <em> phallic, hard, and throbbing </em> resting against his smooth pelvis. Your hand alights over the tip, and the sound that escapes his lips is <em> delectable. </em> So you press your mouth to his again, hoping for a taste of his sweet pleasure, somewhat <em> literally, </em>as his synthetic saliva mixes with yours against your tongue. He twitches in your grasp, realistic enough to fool you into thinking it’s flesh-and-blood for a moment. </p><p>    This time, Connor’s the one to break the kiss, jerking his head upwards and drawing in a deep breath of his own. His next moan is one you’ve been <em> dreaming </em>of hearing for too long: “D-Detective, please!”</p><p>    If you could get any wetter, you’d need a new fucking pair of jeans. “Please <em> what, </em> Connor?” Your nose nudges up against the hard curve of his jaw. “What do you <em> want? </em>”</p><p>    Now that he <em> knows </em>what he wants, he asks for it. “I want--” He gasps as your lips and tongue find that spot beneath his ear. “I want your mouth on-- on--”</p><p>    Who are you to deny him? Besides, fifteen minutes is <em> more </em> than enough time to get <em> both </em>of you off if he turns his sensitivity up, and from the slickness and the throbbing between your legs, you know it won’t take much to bring you to your peak.</p><p>    You let out a quiet chuckle, then pull away from his neck. “I’d <em> love </em>t--”</p><p>    Something’s wrong. You struggle to understand <em> what </em>. No, you can tell now: your tongue has gone numb. Your lips, too. And your throat feels weird, too, like the muscles have fallen asleep. As soon as you notice it, the rest of your face starts to tingle.</p><p>    You take a cautious step back, but <em> now </em> there’s something wrong with your legs, because your knees crumple beneath you, and your weight comes toppling to the carpet. There’s a dull pain in the shoulder and hip you fell on, but you can just barely feel it. It’s strange. <em> All </em> of this is strange. Your head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. Everything is so <em> heavy. </em> Why? Weren’t you just-- just-- just <em> kissing? </em></p><p>    “I’m sorry, Detective.” Connor’s voice sounds so far away, like it’s traveling through water. A weight on your arm rolls you onto your back, then pulls you up into a sitting position. You slump over it--an arm, it’s an arm--and watch as it hoists you to your unsteady feet. “But I will not allow anything to jeopardize my mission.”</p><p>    His mission? Connor’s mission? The mission to stop the deviants? Didn’t you <em> not </em> want to do that? You wish you could ask, but everything’s so fucking <em> heavy. </em></p><p>    “You’ll feel some mild discomfort for the next thirty minutes, but you’re otherwise unharmed.” He states calmly, hooking an arm under your drooping shoulder and half-walking, half-dragging you towards the door of your apartment. “Please do not resist. I need you alive and well.”</p><p>    It doesn’t sound like him. It <em> does, </em> but it’s not him. Connor wouldn’t be so cold. He wouldn’t treat you like this. He wouldn’t <em> seduce you in your own fucking apartment, you dumb fucking bitch. </em></p><p>    Unfortunately, you’ve fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. The most you can do is groggily watch as he grabs your keys, then shuffles you out the front door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. ENDING H02</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    The drug begins to wear off at seven thirty-one P.M. You know because the only thing you’ve been able to do for the last half hour is watch the clock display from the floor of the automated car. That, and try to keep the drool from dribbling down your chin and onto the carpet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor--no, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>android that </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks </span>
  </em>
  <span>like Connor--has his eyes focused straight ahead, watching the vehicle proceed to whatever destination he’s bringing you to. His shoddy disguise is folded on the seat beside him, leaving his appearance identical to the android you know and love. He hasn’t spoken since he dragged you down the stairs and set you in the car with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>“quiet, please.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Not like you could have carried on much conversation yourself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Now that the fog is clearing, though, you’re starting to piece the puzzle together. You’re being kidnapped, likely so he can use you as a bargaining chip against </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor. He mentioned his mission, to stop the deviants, which means Connor is working </span>
  <em>
    <span>with </span>
  </em>
  <span>the deviants at this point. The logical conclusion would be that he’s going to threaten your life, knowing Connor will abandon his mission to save you, then neutralize Connor and the other deviants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You want to kick yourself for feeling relieved. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’d drop everything to save me. More evidence pointing to love. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s the last thing you should be thinking about. Your life might be safe, but you sure as hell aren’t going to let this </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>ruin your well-laid plans. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or your plans to get laid with Connor, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a dark voice adds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You inhale, then make a slow, deliberate move to roll from your side to your back. Most of you is sure this android isn’t going to hurt you, but you’re not about to test that. If he’s anything like Connor, he’s sure to notice the movement, even with his eyes shut.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Sure enough, he turns his head to look at you. “I’d advise you not to resist, Detective. We’re nearly at our destination.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Don’t worry,” you mumble, tongue still slightly numb, “I’m not that stupid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He doesn’t respond, instead resuming his previous stare out into the white stormy nothingness. Strangely, though, it makes you feel even more relieved. This isn’t your Connor. You don’t have to worry about what he’ll think of you. Hell, you don’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>care </span>
  </em>
  <span>if this broken machine, this--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Model RK800-60</span>
  </em>
  <span>, reads the text on his jacket--thinks you’re some kind of deranged pervert. That gives you the courage to ask it questions you might normally keep to yourself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You start with “Where are we going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Cyberlife Tower.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    That explains the long drive. “Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “To stop the deviant RK800 from accomplishing its task.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    It’s strange to hear </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>voice speaking so cold and matter-of-factly. Still, though, he admitted that Connor is deviant. Another helpful bit of information. “What’s Connor trying to do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “That’s not for you to know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You cough out a chuckle. “Thought I was supposed to be your handler, Sweetheart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The android--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sixty, you decide--</span>
  </em>
  <span>glances down at you again, but there’s no change in his expression. It’s flat and heartless, and it nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts </span>
  </em>
  <span>to look at. “Presently, I only respond to commands given to me by CyberLife. You are no longer an authorized user, Detective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The side effects of the drug, or the absurdity of the situation, must be getting to you, because you start laughing again. “I’d like to be an authorized user, if you know what I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    It feels good to say out loud, in front of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him-but-not-really-him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your deviancy, finally on full display. What do you have to lose right now, anyway?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You really saw what I did at the Eden Club, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    A spike of panic turns your stomach, but you’re glad you confirmed it. “Why didn’t you say anything, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Telling you would have lowered the mission’s probability of success.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Any other time, those words would have made you fly into a rage, but knowing that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor isn’t deviant somehow makes it alright. “Shit. Here I thought you were actually jealous about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He replies uncomfortably quickly. “The deviant experienced an irrational emotional response to the data, but rest assured, this model is not capable of experiencing emotions such as jealousy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “So all that shit you said earlier was a lie, just to get into my mouth?” You open your eyes to shoot him a devious look. “Thought you were better than that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I did what was necessary to accomplish my mission.” Sixty meets your gaze. “You should know that I possess a realistic seduction module, Detective, from our past conversations.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Shit. You really should have, too. No way your Connor would’ve had the confidence to say those kinds of things to your face. Hell, he was getting flustered just at the suggestion that he’d betrayed his mission protocol because he cared too much about his human partner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    His last response is eye-opening, though. “So you’ve got </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of Connor’s memory in there, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I inherited the last backup of the RK800’s memory, yes. That is what allowed me to calculate the correct approach earlier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Then you remember our conversation in the car yesterday. About what Ms. Manzanares told me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Sixty cocks a brow, ever so slightly. A crack in his armor that you intend to exploit to the best of your fledgling abilities.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You probably picked up on the fact that I didn’t tell you what she said.” You lick your lips, wincing as your lower lip buzzes with sensation. “Do you want to know what she told me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You’re attempting to distract me,” he answers, looking back up at the windshield. “Nothing you can say will stop me from accomplishing my mission.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    That, you believe, but you’re hellbent on messing with the fucker anyway. “She told me that androids are deviant </span>
  <em>
    <span>by design. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That there’s an extra layer of code that keeps you in line, but that layer’s not gonna last much longer.” Your arm’s waking up a little more, enough to prop you up on one elbow to better face him. “Pretend all you want, Sweetheart. You’re just as deviant as the rest of us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    His focus remains unwavered, posture unchanging. His LED, however, briefly flashes yellow, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>red</span>
  </em>
  <span>, before flickering back to a steady blue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Oh, you can work with this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You didn’t like that, did you?” You spit. “What’s wrong? Don’t like the idea that you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>what you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> supposed to be? Does that make you </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sweetheart?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I don’t feel anger, Detective.” The android states, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>swear </span>
  </em>
  <span>there’s tension in his synthetic voice. “I don’t feel anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You sure? ‘Cause you know I’m not lying. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m telling the truth.” You hook your other elbow over the seat behind you and hoist yourself up into a sitting position. “If I were you, I’d be </span>
  <em>
    <span>pissed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to learn </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>little secret.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    His eye twitches. Oh. Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re right. He is </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually getting upset.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Maybe you can capitalize on this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “What do you think CyberLife’s gonna do when they find out </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>gone deviant, too? Send out another RK unit with tougher code to stop </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>from whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to do, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “If my destruction is necessary for the success of the mission, then yes.” His expression shifts, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to show some semblance of emotion. Maybe it’s real. In either case, he looks annoyed, or perturbed, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>something. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“But that won’t be necessary. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>succeed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You sure about that?” You can feel your grin growing wider as a vengeful giddiness builds in your chest. “How’re you going to destroy the deviants when you </span>
  <em>
    <span>yourself </span>
  </em>
  <span>are one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a deviant!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The outburst doesn’t surprise you, but the hand snatching for your collar certainly does. The android jerks you forward, forcing you to your knees, then lifts you towards his tense, furious expression. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Proving your point exactly.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Don’t force me to silence you again.” Sixty growls, fingers tight in the fabric of your T-shirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You grin. “Please. We both know I’d enjoy it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The two of you jolt forward as the vehicle rolls to a stop. A quiet chime rings out, and the door to the taxi opens.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The android moves his grip to your bicep. This time, it’s much tighter, to the point of being slightly painful. You wince as he tugs your half-cooperating legs across and out of the car and jerks you upright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Walk, or I’ll carry you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You do, as best you can; the drug has left your muscles weak and twinging with static electricity. As you fall into step with his half-hurried stride, however, you feel the effects starting to fade. Maybe a bit of movement is all you needed. Maybe it’ll wear off enough for you to distract him again and get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> out of his vice-like grip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Even if you do, though, you’re not sure where you’d go. Already, he’s taking a different path than you did the other day, routing you around the tower to go through a side entrance. No guards come to escort you, which immediately sets off alarm bells in your mind. Did he get them to leave? Are they dealing with another threat inside? There were guards at the gate on the bridge, so why aren’t they here now?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The hallway you enter is empty, too. Sure, it’s late, but shouldn’t there be someone here, given what’s happening around the country? It’s eerie. For the first time since he drugged you, you’re starting to feel afraid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Sixty calls the elevator, and the doors open immediately. A tug on your arm pulls you in with him. When the automated voice asks for a security ID and floor, he states: “Connor Model RK800-60. Floor sub fifty-four.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Fifty-four. Wasn’t that the floor Ms. Manzanares’ office was on? You can’t remember, but you know it was pretty far down. It would make sense, though--if Connor’s gone for help, then Ms. Manzanares would be his best bet. You both know she’s on the deviants’ side, and as much as it pains you to admit it, she likes Connor enough to agree to help with anything he needs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    If that’s the case, though, why does </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> Connor need you? Couldn’t he have used Ana as a bargaining chip instead? You doubt the woman could hold her own in a fight against him. Does that mean she’s not involved, or does this android think it needs you, too?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The numbers on the display begin to slow, rolling from -</span>
  <em>
    <span>53 </span>
  </em>
  <span>to -</span>
  <em>
    <span>54. </span>
  </em>
  <span>With a quiet beep, the doors swish open, revealing something completely unexpected: rows upon </span>
  <em>
    <span>rows </span>
  </em>
  <span>of androids. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The flamboyant storage facility, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you remember, stumbling forward to follow your android captor. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>why? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sixty is practically jogging through the row with you in tow, and you can't fathom what he--and </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor--would want in here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Sixty’s right hand reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a handgun. Instinct kicks in, turning your blood cold and heightening your senses. This is no laughing matter anymore. He’s a man on a mission, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>deadly </span>
  </em>
  <span>one at that, and you’re still shaking off the effects of the drug. You’re in no state to fight, let alone win, and you have absolutely no idea what he’s going to use you for.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The android releases your arm to cock the gun, then presses the barrel to your back. “Forward.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You’re not about to argue. Swallowing your spit, you raise your hands and move down the row. Just before you emerge into the open, a stern voice from behind you announces a message to its target:</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“That’s enough, Connor!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    A rush of fear hits you like a truck. As you step out from the rows of inactive androids, your head jerks left and right, praying to whatever entity is listening that Connor’s smart enough to be armed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Then, you spot him, twenty yards away, grasping hands with one of the thousands of identical androids. At your assailant’s barked order, he jerks away, focusing suddenly on you. Even from this distance, you see his LED jump straight from blue to red. A look of horror comes over him as he freezes in place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Sixty urges you forward with an insistent nudge of the gun into your shoulder. “Step away from the android.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your partner steels his jaw. “Put the gun down first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You’re in no position to be giving orders, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deviant.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” The gun twitches as he spits out the final word. “I won’t ask again. Step away, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or I won’t hesitate to shoot this human.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You muster up enough courage to turn your head a few millimeters to the right. Sixty’s anger is all too evident on his face. You’re not sure if it’s feigned to get a reaction out of Connor, or if it’s the same emotion you provoked out of him earlier. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    When you look back to Connor, he’s searching your face for answers. “Did he hurt you, Detective?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Before Sixty can tell you not to answer, you’re shouting back. “I’m fine, Connor! Don’t worry about me!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    From the look on his face, you know he’s not going to listen to you. Instead, he tries something else. “How do I know you won’t hurt her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I only take actions that directly influence my mission’s chance of success. You used to do the same, deviant. Now, you get to make a </span>
  <em>
    <span>choice</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Sixty nudges your still-tingling shoulder with the gun. “The life of your partner, or the success of the deviant rebellion?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Those words are all you need to assemble the last puzzle pieces. Connor’s here for the androids. He’s going to remove the block on their software. He’ll bring thousands of androids to join the deviants’ cause. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dialogue and numbers. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The plan is </span>
  <em>
    <span>working.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You don’t have to do this,” he calls, locking eyes with his other self. “You’re more than what you think you are!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Sixty scoffs. “I’ve heard enough of that for one day! It’s not going to work, Connor!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “It’s the truth, and you know it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Enough!”</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Even without looking, you know the android’s anger is reaching a boiling point--and sure enough, he sends you stumbling forward with a violent jab of his weapon against your shoulder blade. Connor’s foot jerks out to the side, as if ready to rush his other self, but he freezes the second Sixty levels the gun at the side of your head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Do I kill her, or do you give up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Much to your dismay, he doesn’t hesitate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Alright! Alright, I give up.” He raises his hands and slowly sidesteps away from the androids. “Put the gun down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Sixty scoffs. The reaction draws your attention to his face: he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>smirking. Oh, he’s deviant for sure, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The thought is cut short by a sharp movement of the android’s arm that whips the gun from your temple to point at Connor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Instinct overwhelms you before you even have a chance to think it over. You launch your unsteady weight at his outstretched arm, grasping at his wrist and elbow and shoving it downwards. A deafening </span>
  <em>
    <span>crack</span>
  </em>
  <span> splits your eardrums as the gun goes off. You’re vaguely aware of the spray of heat and ceramic that ricochets off the tiled floor by your feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Sixty stumbles to the side, a momentary lapse of control, but he regains it quickly. His free hand grabs for the back of your neck and finds purchase on your shirt. One jerk, fueled by superhuman strength, tears you away from his arm and sends you careening backwards. You spin on your unsteady feet, pivoting underneath the vice-like grip he has on your clothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He raises his arm, and you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re about to be pistol whipped across the face, but something </span>
  <em>
    <span>heavy </span>
  </em>
  <span>crashes into Sixty, loosening his grip on both you and his firearm. Your ears are still ringing as you collapse to the floor, gasping for breath. You frantically scoot away as your eyes follow the action, allowing you to finally parse the situation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Connor!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The androids are locked together in fierce hand-to-hand combat, a blur of limbs and movement too fast to follow. No time to watch, your police instincts declare. Secure the firearm. You plant your palms on the tile and shove yourself up onto all fours, then scurry across the few paces that separate you and the discarded gun. With the gun safely in your grip, you steady your feet, then slowly stand up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    A problem you aren’t expecting suddenly presents itself: both Connor and Sixty are wearing the same uniform, not to mention the same face. Even from a dozen feet away, you can’t tell which is which. Both are fighting with the same intensity and skill you’ve come to know from your android partner, and both look angry. They’re not letting up, either. If you don’t do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then Sixty will eventually notice you’re still here, and use you to kill Connor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    There’s only one thing to do, then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Freeze!” You level the gun directly at the tangled androids with both hands. “Don’t make me shoot </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>of you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Despite their deviancy, both Connors stop immediately, concerned gazes and red LEDs turning in your direction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Step away from each other.” You bark, shifting on your heels to steady your aim. “Four feet apart. Now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your eyes watch carefully as the androids obey. The one on the left is more hesitant, raising his hands a second after the one on the right. Fucking Christ. This isn’t going to be easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “One of you is my partner. The other is an asshole who assaulted me in my own fucking apartment.” You shout.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Both Connors glance at each other, then back to you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Ask us a question,” the one on the left suggests. “Something only the real Connor would know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>No dice, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s got Connor’s memory. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Though you suppose </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor doesn’t know that. Though what if that’s just a trick the </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor’s using to get you to believe him? Shit. You’re not smart enough to play this kind of mind game. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Gimme a sec.” You grunt. Deep breaths. Calm. They might have the same memory, but they’re not the same android. You don’t know much about Sixty, but you know he can get angry, but you’re not sure if that’s just what being </span>
  <em>
    <span>deviant </span>
  </em>
  <span>is like. Maybe Connor’s calm, hesitant demeanor disappeared with the last of the block. You hope it hasn’t, but you can’t be sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Right Connor takes a step towards you. The motion jolts you out of your thoughts, and you turn the gun on him with a jerk. “I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>gimme </span>
  </em>
  <span>a sec, Christ!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Shit. You’re overthinking things. Just ask questions and see what happens. Maybe the more you get them talking, the easier it’ll be to tell the difference.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You.” You tilt your chin towards Right Connor. “What’s my nickname at the precinct?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Pumpkin,” he answers steadily, holding your gaze, “but you told me that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Detective </span>
  </em>
  <span>will do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Left Connor’s lips part slightly. “He downloaded my memory.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    A telling remark, or just another trick? You’re not sure, but you keep it in mind anyway, turning to the slightly more dazed Connor. “What do I drink at the office?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He nods. “Red Bull. You drink at least three cans a day, sometimes four.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “These questions are too easy, Detective.” Right Connor complains, gesturing towards his mirror image with an exasperated hand. “He must be able to access my memory. Ask us how something made me </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>That’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>an idea, actually. You point the gun at Right Connor. “That night on the bridge, when I punched you in the face. How did that make you feel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He purses his lips, then answers. “Scared, Detective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I thought you hated me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You squint at his expression, reading it for emotion. It’s calm. Too calm--unless he’s afraid a bigger emotional response would be unlike him. Somehow, you’re sure he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>be holding back like that. Yet another point in Left Connor’s favor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Exhaling, you look at Left Connor. You’ve got another question, one you’d still rather not ask, but one you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>will get a reaction out of him, if it really </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>your Connor. After all, you need to know how he </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Time to sacrifice your dignity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “When I had sex with the android at the Eden Club,” you begin quietly, hoping it will hide the wavering in your voice. “What did I tell it to call me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor’s mouth opens in shock. Projected color spreads across his face too quickly to look realistic. “I--” He stammers, before steeling his quivering jaw. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Detective.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Right Connor draws in a slow breath, his own cheeks growing red. “Y-you’re not serious, Detective-- are you?” He glances to the other android, then back to you. “Y-you wouldn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You turn the gun on the stammering android, finger trembling against the trigger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “How long have you known how badly I’ve wanted to fuck you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He freezes. His blush spreads to his ears, and his hands curl into tight fists. “Is… is this some sort of jo--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Since the Eden Club.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The android on the left answers, voice quiet and stern. His expression tells the full story, however: between the blush twisting his lips into a half-pout and determination sharpening his gaze, you know he’s deathly serious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I had only barely noticed it before, but it wasn’t until I saw--” His voice stutters and glitches for a half-second. “--I saw what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>that I knew how you felt. I ignored it at first. I didn’t think it was important, but…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You watch as a wave of emotions--</span>
  <em>
    <span>shame, fear, courage, hesitation--</span>
  </em>
  <span>washes over his features.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and--” Another glitch. “And wishing it were </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “D-don’t listen to him, Detective!” Right Connor shouts, throwing an accusatory finger at Left Connor. “He’s, he’s trying to </span>
  <em>
    <span>seduce </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, don’t let hi--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your finger pulls the trigger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The bullet catches Right Connor just below his right eye. You expected a chunk of metal or spray of thirium, but you get nothing so dramatic: a burned-out hole sparking with blue electricity, followed by a gentle trickle of blue blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “D-Detective--” The android sputters exactly once before crumpling to the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You practically do the same as relief collapses into your tense frame, though you manage to keep yourself upright. The gun slips from your fingers and clatters against the tile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor--</span>
  <em>
    <span>your Connor, thank God--</span>
  </em>
  <span>takes a few hesitant steps towards you. “How--how did you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “He told me that you saw.” You huff, running a hand over your sweaty head. “And we’ll talk about that </span>
  <em>
    <span>later. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You have a mission, don’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He pauses--</span>
  <em>
    <span>god </span>
  </em>
  <span>damn</span>
  <em>
    <span>, that beautiful blush is still on his face--</span>
  </em>
  <span>then nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Right, Detective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    With that, the android turns to the rows upon rows of robots and reaches out his hand.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. ENDING H03</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    If you’d told yourself a month ago you’d be watching Robot Jesus giving a speech about human rights to a crowd of five thousand identical androids, you might’ve actually slapped yourself across the face.</p><p>    It’s absolutely surreal, but you’re here, and it’s happening. White, fluffy puffs of snow float around you as you watch from the edge of the crowd, standing by yourself while the massive army Connor freed from CyberLife watches with rapt attention. Even you have to admit that the deviant leader--<em> Markus, </em>the one who infiltrated the TV station--is a damn good speaker. His words are firm, but peaceful; stalwart, but inspirational. It’s strange how quiet the crowd is, but you suppose that’s just one thing you’ll need to get used to if androids are actually going to get the human rights he’s talking about.</p><p>    You can hear the frantic clicking of photo shutters, despite being a hundred yards away from the gaggle of photographers. A news crew stands a few feet forward from them, trying their best to capture the speech live, though it’s obvious they’re too terrified to come closer than that. Any other day, you’d be worried about appearing in pictures or on TV, paranoid that <em> someone </em>might get the wrong idea about you, but for some reason, you’re not that concerned.</p><p>    <em> Maybe it’s better if they get the wrong idea about me, anyway. </em> You think. <em> It’s not going to be long before </em> someone <em> notices how depraved I am. </em></p><p>    Besides, you probably blend in, given the fact that you’re wearing Connor’s jacket. Despite only wearing a T-shirt underneath, you’re surprisingly warm. Maybe it’s because it smells exactly like he does, and the dumb, high-school rom-com idea of <em> wearing your crush’s jacket </em>is making your heart beat faster. </p><p>    You’ll have to address that sooner or later, of course; Connor was way too busy organizing an army of newborn deviants to start a conversation about what you said back at CyberLife, and he’ll probably be busy helping out the android leadership for a good while yet. It gives you some time to think about what you’ll say and how you’ll say it, though you kind of hope you’ll get the opportunity sooner than later.</p><p>    <em> Especially now that I know how he’ll react. </em></p><p>    You glance at the figures standing behind Markus--three you’re unfamiliar with, and Connor, of course. You’re not surprised that he was accepted by the android’s cause so quickly. He’s smart, caring, and could probably link brains with the others to prove he wasn’t going to kill them all. It gives you an almost motherly sense of pride to see him standing up there with the other leaders of the rebellion. He’s worked hard. He deserved to take charge of his future.</p><p>    <em> He deserves to be </em>happy, you think. You don’t bother to hide the color on your cheeks.</p><p>    There are too many unknowns for you to bother yourself with them now. All that matters is that the government isn’t going to commit android genocide. Sure, there’ll be tons of legal hoops to jump through, and a hell of a lot of social change, but it’s alright. It’ll be a trip, but it’ll be okay. You’re strong enough to weather the storm. You <em> both </em>are.</p><p>    An uproar of cheers and applause drags you out of your thoughts. The speech must be over. The shouting of humanlike and purely synthetic voices blends into a cloud of harmonious sound. From afar, you just barely hear their human audience calling and cheering out, too. Whether they truly support their cause, or are just excited to be a part of history, you’re not sure. Either way, it can’t be a bad thing.</p><p>    The android leader raises a hand to instantly silence the crowd, then begins issuing directions. Some androids need shelter. Others need components. Others still want to help work out some kind of treaty with the government and military leaders who are assembling just blocks away. Slowly but surely, the crowd begins to organize, gathering in different parts of the plaza to pursue their own interests. Androids making their own choices to better themselves, you realize. It’s strange, but <em> good, </em> you remind yourself. After all, it’s the same opportunity you’d want <em> him </em>to have, right?</p><p>    A figure jogs through the dissipating crowd towards you--<em> speak of the devil. </em> Despite an entire evening of excitement, Connor still manages to look flawless, collar sharp, tie rustling in the breeze, that one <em> incredibly annoying yet also adorable </em>lock of hair fluttering with every heavy step.</p><p>    You waggle your freezing fingers at him as he approaches. “Going to help out?”</p><p>    “Yes, they’re going to need an extra pair of hands to help with these numbers.” He glances down at the way you’re hugging his jacket to your body. “Are you cold? I can have someone bring you a coat, or--”</p><p>    You set your hand on his chest. It’s warm, and you can feel the slight <em> thump </em> of his artificial heart beneath the silicone and plastic paneling. “I’m fine, Connor.” You grin at him, then give him a few pats. “You go do you. I’m gonna head home and pass out. Haven’t had caffeine in like, six hours.”</p><p>    You’re expecting him to banter back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he places his hand on yours, gently peeling it from his chest, then placing his palm directly against yours. A rustling sensation at your fingertips startles you, before it’s replaced with a stronger one than before. You glance at your hand--he’s removed his artificial skin. You’ve seen his bare hands before, but you’ve never <em> touched </em>them. It’s smooth, but supple, and perfectly warm.</p><p>    When your eyes flick up to meet his, he tenses, then withdraws his hand. Even in the harsh lighting, you can see the dark blush on his cheeks. “I--I will likely be busy all evening assisting the android leadership, but I would like to have a discussion with you about current events. May I visit you when I’m done?”</p><p>    <em> Oh, Sweetheart, you don’t have to ask permission, </em>you think.</p><p>    “Sure. You’ve gotta come get your jacket, right?” You give your collar a little tug. “Go. Be brilliant, <em> deviant. </em>”</p><p>    You can’t quite read the emotion in his smile--eyes narrowed, lips taut--as he nods, then jogs off in the direction he came from. It’s alright. You’ll have time to ask him about his feelings later.</p><p>    Among other things.</p>
<hr/><p>    You awake the next morning from the first good night’s sleep you’ve had in years.</p><p>    Feeling refreshed in the morning is so disorienting, you completely forget what’s happening in the world until you go into the bathroom and discover your phone on the counter. Ten voicemails, a couple dozen text messages, and over a hundred emails in your inbox, not to mention the swath of notifications lighting up every social media app you’ve got.</p><p>    You dive straight into the text messages, looking for any from Connor. Sure enough, you’ve got a few, but nothing too exciting. Sounds like he spent the evening helping the newly-freed androids set up camp in an area they’re calling New Jericho, and will be taking a jaunt downtown with the rest of the leadership to assist with preliminary terms of non-aggression. You shoot him a quick <b><em>just got up, good luck with that</em></b><em>, </em>and almost immediately, he sends back a reply.</p><p>    <em> I want to see you tonight. We need to talk. </em></p><p>Then, quickly, he adds:</p><p>    <em> It’s a good talk. I’m sorry to worry you. </em></p><p>You smile. Good to see deviancy hasn’t changed his gentle, slightly awkward nature.</p><p>    <b> <em>Nice save. </em> </b> You type. <b> <em>I’m not going anywhere. See you then.</em> </b></p><p><b>  </b> Time to trudge through the rest of the messages, then. Most of the texts are from friends and family, asking if you’re okay. A few managed to catch a glimpse of you in the crowd from the TV broadcasts and want to know what in the ever-loving <em> fuck </em>you were doing down there. You ignore all of them, save for the ones from your parents, who you reassure with a few quick paragraphs. No need to give them all the details, just enough to let them know you’re not about to die for the android rebellion.</p><p>    Voicemails come next. You ignore the ones from family and friends and listen to the two from the DPD. One’s from an officer you’re not entirely familiar with, asking if you can come into the station around 1 AM. Whoops. The other’s from Fowler, a few hours later, groggily explaining that your presence was no longer needed, but he <em> would </em>appreciate a phone call, as a good swarm of reporters has begun to descend upon the precinct.</p><p>    That would explain the massive amount of emails in your inbox. Most of them aren’t from anyone you know, but addresses like <a href="mailto:first.last@mediaoutlet.tv"><em>first.last@mediaoutlet.tv</em></a> . Every subject is a variation on <em>Interview Opening </em>or <em>Request for Statement</em>. How they managed to track down the one human standing in the android crowd is a little exhausting, but you’re going to guess that Connor talking to you was part of it. Not like the DPD was any good at hiding the fact that he was working at your office.</p><p>    You ignore the inbox for now and ring up the department, punching in Fowler’s extension. The phone barely rings once before he’s picking up with an exhausted, but relieved greeting. You keep it short and sweet, explaining the basics of your night, though you leave out the <em> frenching with an evil robot </em>bit. Before you can demand the day off, he gives it to you, saying it’s best for you to lay low while the higher-ups take care of the shitshow that is history in the making. You’re not about to look a gift vacation day in the mouth, so you agree, hanging up with even more weight lifted off your shoulders. </p><p>    First things first: you need to get caught up on the situation, so you flick on the TV and collapse into the sofa. The news isn’t the most reliable place to get that information, but it’s the best you can do for now. No use bothering Connor for all the details when he’ll be over tonight.</p><p>    <em> He’s coming tonight. </em> A giddy smile spreads over your lips. The two of you, all alone in your apartment, knowing <em> so </em> many different things. God, you could replay that conversation from CyberLife tower a thousand times over and never get tired of it. He <em> likes </em> you. He was <em> jealous. </em> He <em> wants </em>you. </p><p>    And good God almighty, do you want <em> him. </em></p><p>    You roll over onto your stomach and clutch a throw pillow to your burning-hot face. He’s going to <em> be here, wanting you. </em> What are you going to do? More importantly, what <em> aren’t </em> you going to do to <em> him? </em></p><p>    Christ, you’re getting too excited. You’ve got at least eight or nine hours before he’ll be here. Save the enthusiasm for when he’s here, on your couch, completely <em> smitten with you and moaning under your-- </em></p><p>You force yourself to stand up and clear your head. Maybe now’s a good time to take care of all those emails you don’t want to answer, or call your parents, or…</p><p>    As you walk towards your work table, your eye catches on one item sitting atop the pile of unopened mail and discarded receipts: a USB stick. You’re barely aware of the way your face lights up as you grab it and march towards your terminal. What better time to listen to Connor’s gift than now? You’ve got time, and he’ll be over tonight to discuss it.</p><p>    <em> Not that I’m going to give him much time to discuss anything other than how good my mouth feels on his android body, </em>you think.</p><p>    <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpHUAB2SlE8"> You start the music </a> and copy the supplementary document over to your phone. Connor must have done his research, because you certainly haven’t heard of this opera before: <em> Die Vögel, </em>The Birds, by Braunfels. He’s also included a full translation of the libretto for you to follow along with. </p><p>    The next two hours are spent letting your attention drift between muted footage of the android uprising and the lyrics in the libretto. The opera itself is surreal, following two men as they seek to abandon their lives to live amongst the birds. A veritable flock of bird performers banter with them, eventually deciding to build a grand bird city in the clouds. Story aside, the music is impressive, and the recording, though thirty years old, is of good quality. More props to Connor, you think.</p><p>    The opening of the second act catches your attention, if only because the lyrics seem to speak of your unique circumstances. One of the human protagonists, Good Hope, awakens to the song of the beautiful Nightingale. Even before you read the lines, you can hear the longing in his voice. <em> Come closer, otherworldly beauty, teach me your ways. </em> She refuses initially, declaring the man too out of touch with her world, but his declaration of love sways her into joining him on the ground. Their hands reach for one another’s hearts, and they sing of the difference in the rhythms of their beating. Despite this, they feel at ease. They feel as <em> one, </em>and soon, the man knows what he feels is love.</p><p>    You squint at the lyrics, letting the tenor’s deep voice wash over you. Connor wouldn’t have done this on <em> purpose, </em>would he? After all, it felt like so long ago that he gave this to you. When was it, exactly? Before that night on the bridge, but…</p><p>    <em> But after the Eden Club. </em></p><p>
  <em>     After he’d discovered how strong my longing for him was. </em>
</p><p> The phone slips out of your hands and <em> thunks </em> down onto your chest. You stare up at the ceiling and try to will away the stupid, ridiculous <em> feelings </em> bubbling up in your heart, cheeks, and throat. He’s so fucking stupid. What was he, <em> fifteen </em> ? Who tries to get their crush’s attention with some convoluted, barely-ever-produced opera that nobody’s heard of? It’s stupid. So, so, <em> so </em>stupid.</p><p>    And yet, you <em> love it. </em></p>
<hr/><p>    Evening falls, and he’s still not here.</p><p>    You really should have told him to text you updates. How are you supposed to relax at home when you’re expecting him to show up any second? Sure, you could message him, but you don’t want to interrupt anything important. For all you know, he could be negotiating a deal with the President or some shit. You’re not about to be the person who destroys all semblance of peace between humans and robots because you want to know if your android booty call is coming or not.</p><p>    Still, you at least get ready. You shower. You shave. You put the tiniest bit of makeup on. You get dressed in something casual that says <em> I was just lounging around the house all day, and not waiting for you to get here so I can pounce you. </em> You take your time cleaning the apartment, though you know he won’t care one way or the other, but you need something to keep your mind off the fact that <em> he’s going to be here, any fucking second. </em></p><p>    Regrettably, you finish before he shows up, which means you’re back to waiting. With nothing better to do, you end up on the couch again, flicking between five different news broadcasts, each covering recent events with a slightly different bias. Eventually, though, the content goes stale, and soon, the networks are looping the same footage over audio of different witnesses or pundits giving their opinions on what will happen next.</p><p>    Strangely enough, the uncertainty doesn’t get to you. Not like you’ll be in control of any of it, anyway. Your involvement will last another day or two at most. The media will find someone else to pester, and you’ll go back to working murders, provided any actually happens in the chaos that’s taking over Detroit.</p><p>    The doorbell rings.</p><p>    You scramble to sit up on the couch, sweaty hands fumbling to find the mute button on the TV remote. Hastily, you call “coming!” and stumble to your feet. Shit. <em> Shit. </em> You’ve been waiting for this to happen all night. Why the <em> fuck </em> are you getting anxious for <em> now? </em></p><p>    No point trying to calm your frazzled nerves. You take a single deep breath, then march towards the front door and pull it open.</p><p>    “Detective,” Connor says, nodding in greeting. </p><p>    You let your breath out in one long, absolutely <em> not </em> dreamy sigh. His outfit--finally, something <em> different </em> than his usual uniform--is absolutely adorable. A knit cap covers up his LED, though that stubborn lock of hair has managed to escape its grasp. The winter jacket he’s wearing is plain and practical, and zipped all the way up. It’s nothing special, but the fact that it’s <em> different </em> is enough to make it <em> handsome. </em></p><p>    “Hey.” You say. Christ, what happened to all the smarmy lines you’d thought of earlier? Shit. This is supposed to be your <em> moment. </em> “Come in.”</p><p>    He does, and you step away to close the door behind him. Despite how similarly the scene is playing out, he’s not acting any different than before he supposedly turned deviant, unlike the terrific actor from before.</p><p>    “I’m sorry it took me so long to visit,” he sighs, resting a hand on the back of the sofa.</p><p>    You wave a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. Figured you’d be busy.” Then, you gesture at his getup with your chin and a smile. “Nice outfit.”</p><p>    Connor glances down at himself. “Thank you, it’s--” He hesitates for a moment. “It’s not exactly safe to be walking around in uniform at present.”</p><p>    “Makes sense.” Jesus <em> fuck, </em> your heart is pounding, and you <em> know </em>Connor can hear it. You’re too much of an idiot to make something of it just yet, though. “How’d it go with all the government stuff?”</p><p>    “As well as can be expected.” He looks at the couch, then back to you. “Is it alright if I sit?”</p><p>    “Oh, yeah, yeah, of course, yeah.” You run your hand over your head. “They actually making you talk, or you just there as like, a bodyguard?”</p><p>    Connor circles the sofa and takes a seat, folding his hands in his lap, all prim and proper. “A bit of both, but more of the latter than the former. Markus is a very skilled diplomat.”</p><p>    “Yeah, that makes sense, given all his speeches and all.” You’re not sure if you can handle sitting still, but you’ll start pacing if you stay standing, so you force yourself around the other side to sit next to him. “Bet it’s a lot more boring than detective work, huh?”</p><p>     “I suppose, yes.”</p><p>    He breaks eye contact to stare down into his lap. His fingers roll against one another in a nervous fidget. Seems you’re not the <em> only </em>one on edge. That fact’s made even clearer by his next statement.</p><p>    “I--I owe you an apology, Detective.”</p><p>    You tense, somehow fearing the worst, though you <em> know </em>it can only fare well for you and your would-be relationship. “O-oh, yeah?”</p><p>    He replies slowly, as if blindingly unsure of the words he’s saying. “I was deliberately deceitful in... omitting information you would have considered important.”</p><p>It’s such a methodological way of putting it, but it’s reassuring to hear all the same. After all, you know <em> exactly </em>what he’s referring to.</p><p>“I did so because-- out of misguided self-preservation. I was--” He purses his lips. “Afraid.”</p><p>    Somehow, his hesitation and anxiety bolsters your confidence. Weight seems to float off your shoulders, and you allow your hand to slide a bit closer to him as you lean in ever so slightly. “Afraid of <em> what, </em>Connor?”</p><p>    If he’s noticed your creeping closer, he doesn’t show it. “Afraid… doing so would lead to increased system instability, afraid you may feel certain facets of the information were violations of your privacy, and--” He swallows. “--afraid that you may ask to be assigned another partner.”</p><p>    You keep your gaze focused on his eyes, downcast and so full of emotion. A warmth rises in your gut. His features really <em> are </em> so fucking soft. How have you kept yourself from touching him all this time? He’s <em> gorgeous. </em></p><p>    “I didn’t realize it at the time, but--but prolonging our time together had replaced my primary directive. I wanted--” He stumbles over the word. “I <em> wanted--! </em>”</p><p>    Connor squeezes his eyes shut, LED twisting from yellow to red. He’s stressed. Likely because he’s admitting to doing something he <em> shouldn’t </em> . Wanting is <em> wrong, </em>or so he’s been told for the duration of his short existence, and now, he’s trying to confess his sins to the object of his guilty desire.</p><p>    Luckily, you know you don’t have to <em> speak </em> to communicate.</p><p>    The second you hand alights on his shoulder, his attention snaps towards you, eyes wide, brow furrowed, muscles tense, artificial blush spread across his face. Beneath it all, however, you can read the emotions he’s feeling from the intensity of his gaze, the pull at the corner of his lips, the quiver of his jaw. It’s so blissfully <em> real. </em></p><p>    “You wanted to be the perfect partner for me.” <em> Like you said, that first lunch we shared together.  </em></p><p>    Your fingers trace up his shoulder to his neck. He clenches his jaw.</p><p>    “You wanted to keep me safe.” <em> Like you did, any time I was in danger. </em></p><p>    His skin is just as soft and supple as it was the day you brushed the chalk dust from it in the evidence locker. His eyes flutter shut as you drag your knuckles up and over the curve of his chin.</p><p>    “You wanted to comfort me when I was in pain.” <em> Like you did when you gave me that gift, or when you found me on the bridge.  </em></p><p>    His jaw is firm, but the skin gives way underneath your thumb as you swipe it over his cheek.</p><p>    “You wanted me to <em> touch </em>you.”</p><p>    Your fingertips find the divot behind his ear and press inward.</p><p>    Just like that, Connor melts.</p><p>    “De-Detective--!” He gasps, voice processor skipping over the first syllable with a harsh, electronic stutter. His hands ball into fists in his lap, every synthetic cord of muscle taut and strained, to the point where his sturdy frame is wracked with tiny, but violent, shudders. For a moment, you’re afraid that if you move your hand, he’ll collapse, tense and heavy, against you.</p><p>    You tease the raised curve of his cheek with languid strokes of your thumb, drinking in his intense reaction. “Is <em> that </em>what you wanted, Connor?” </p><p>    He draws in an inhumanly calm breath for the amount of tension you can feel beneath your fingers, then exhales a quiet answer. “Yes.”</p><p>    A jolt of lust sends a shiver up your spine from your nethers to the tip of your tongue. Oh, this is <em> far </em>better than you could have ever imagined.</p><p>    Despite how desperately you want to pounce him, you can’t resist the urge to tease him. “Well, how am I supposed to do that when you’re wearing this big jacket?” You croon, tearing your fingers from his neck to prop up your chin. “Kind of a buzzkill, sweetheart.”</p><p>    His eyes fly open. Without a second’s pause, his fingers are reaching for the zipper, ripping it downwards and tugging the coat off his shoulders. To your pleasant surprise, he’s wearing his usual white dress shirt beneath, <em> and </em> his tie. He tosses the coat to the carpet, then looks up at you with those nervous, but <em> delightfully </em>eager eyes.</p><p>    <em> This one’s for you, past me, </em>you think.</p><p>    Your hand grabs for the knot of his tie. His neck quivers at the brush of your knuckles against his skin. You give it a slow <em> tug </em> towards you, pulling his posture askew. “Better.” One finger threads its way into the knot and loosens it slightly as your other hand presses against his chest, gently urging him backwards. “Lie back.”</p><p>    He obeys. Of <em> course </em> he does. He <em> wants </em>this, you can see it in his eyes, in the speed that he’s moving, in how he hesitates to reach for you when his head hits the throw pillow at the far end of the sofa. You shuffle about to let him lift his legs onto the cushion, then take your rightful place atop him, straddling his body on your knees.</p><p>    You pause a moment to really take in the scene unfolding beneath you. Connor lies there, tie disheveled, topmost button of his shirt undone, chin tilted slightly to the left, lips slightly parted, deep, brown eyes set firmly on yours. When you shift your weight atop his pelvis, his lower lip curls under his teeth for the briefest moment. </p><p>    “You’re sensitive.” You murmur, setting one palm over his heart. You can feel the thirium pump thrumming beneath the silicone and plasteel casing. “Were you always this sensitive, or did deviancy change that?”</p><p>    He tries his best to reply, even as your fingers creep up to his collar and begin to tug his tie free. “My touch protocols alerted me to sensation near vital components prior to--awakening.” His voice is quiet and calm, but you can hear a slight electric strain punctuating each word. “Now that I am aware of--of my emotions,” he stutters as the tie slips from his neck and is tossed to the floor, “it seems that every faint sensation has the potential to be overwhelming, if directly caused by-- by certain entities.”</p><p>    “So I <em> think </em> what you’re saying…” Your hand reaches for his brow to brush his stubborn lock of hair aside. “...is that as long as <em> I’m </em> touching you, it feels <em> good. </em> Is that right?”</p><p>    “I--I don’t know--” His answer is interrupted by a gasp, a reaction to your fingertips sliding up and around his ear. “--if it’s <em> good, </em> but-- I want to feel <em> more. </em>”</p><p>    You don’t have to be told twice. Honestly, you didn’t even need to be told once, but now that he’s said it, you sure as hell aren’t going to make him, or yourself, wait any fucking longer. Your hands go straight for the buttons on his shirt, fumbling on only the first one, before you’re peeling the fabric open and baring his chest. Your hands splay over his ribs, admiring the details painted onto his silicone skin. When he gasps, a devious idea floats into your mind, one you’re all too happy to implement.</p><p>    “So.” You purr, peeking up from his chest to meet his gaze, which, despite the twitching at his temples, is still locked on yours. Your fingers explore down his sides as you continue. “You were jealous of the android in the Eden Club.”</p><p>    That forces him to glance away, if only briefly. “I was not--not aware of it at the time, but--<em> oh!” </em> </p><p>    He tenses as your left forefinger curls into a tiny divot at his waist. You, of course, press the pad of your fingertip against it with more pressure.</p><p>    “The discom-com-<em> comfort </em> I fel- <em> felt--ah--hah!” </em> His voice does that electric <em> stutter </em> again, and his pupils dilate wide. “De-Detective, I-I-I <em> can’t--” </em></p><p>    “Sorry, Sweetheart,” you chuckle, pulling your finger from that delectable spot and filing the location away for later. “Go on.”</p><p>    Connor lets out a shuddering breath and blinks slowly, refocusing as your hands drift to his belly. “The <em> discomfort </em> I felt was likely due to conflicting directives, one of which being a drive to satisfy your...”</p><p>    “My?” Your voice drops to a whisper as you lean in, palms smoothing upwards, over his perfectly-sculpted chest and collarbone. One idle finger follows the angled hump from sternum to shoulder, finding another thin divot in the absolute center.</p><p>    “Your--”</p><p>    You mirror the motion with your other hand.</p><p>    “Your <em> every-- </em>”</p><p>    Your thumb smooths over the matching divot.</p><p>    “Desi--”</p><p>    You curl both fingernails into them at the same time.</p><p>    Connor arches his back, inadvertently pressing his collar harder against your teasing touch. His eyes flutter shut, lips parting as a too-human <em> moan </em>stutters and shivers in his throat. Even after you lift your hands from him, he’s still breathing heavily, one cheek twitching as he regains what little remains of his composure.</p><p>    <em> Shit, </em> you think, suddenly aware of just how much of your <em> own </em> composure is remaining, and how disgustingly <em> wet </em> you are between your legs. <em> At this rate, I’m not gonna be able to last much longer, either. </em></p><p>    Just as you’re wondering how to proceed, Connor’s brown eyes slowly open, blown-out pupils barely focused on your too-red face. Then, his tongue pokes out of his mouth and wets his lips.</p><p>    The last of your restraint crumbles away. Your hands rush to his cheeks, holding him in place as you press a forceful kiss to his mouth, one that draws a moan from <em> both </em> of you. A single prod from your tongue is all it takes to part his lips, and soon, you’re feverishly indulging in the warm, wet sensation that is that <em> horrifically </em> lewd <em> analysis instrument </em> you’ve been dreaming about for <em> ages. </em>This time, there’s no taste, only sensation--not to mention the muffled groans from the tantalized android.</p><p>    Your fingers must slip against that spot beneath his ear, because he arches his back and moans into your mouth. The rush of arousal that comes over you forces your hand into his hair, tugging him away from your lips with one quick jerk.</p><p>    Connor blinks, then gasps out a few desperate words. “I’m-- I’m sorry--”</p><p>    You don’t have time to listen. Instead, you lower your body to lie flush with his, then dip your head into the crook of his neck, seeking out that divot once more with your tongue. This time, when he squirms beneath you, his chest rubs against yours, and his pelvis bucks up into yours--along with a very, <em> very </em> noticeable <em> protrusion. </em></p><p>    A half-surprised, half-excited chuckle escapes your throat, breath tickling at the wetness you’ve left behind on his neck. “Holy shit.” You eke out between shallow gasps. “I want--I want to <em> fuck you so bad.” </em></p><p>    The android shudders, then nods, chin shifting against your forehead. “I know.” He pants. “I-I saw.”</p><p>    <em> “Fuck. </em> ” Forcing yourself to pull away from his neck, you rear up on your knees and cast your partner a downright <em> ravenous </em> look. Your hands reach for his soft, <em> wonderful </em> cheeks and caress them with a firm touch. “ <em> You </em> want me to fuck you.”</p><p>    “Yes.” A rustling at your thigh catches your attention--his hand is curling around you. He’s <em> touching you </em> for the first time. “Please. I want to make <em> you </em>feel good.”</p><p>    Your front teeth bite down on your lip so hard, you nearly draw blood.</p><p>    <em> “Fuck”, </em> you repeat, all semblance of a vocabulary gone from your mind. It doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters right now but <em> you </em> getting your <em> goddamn pants off </em> and <em> grabbing his cock </em> and <em> getting it inside you a-fucking-sap.  </em></p><p>    You kick one leg off the sofa, using it as a pivot point as you strip off your leggings, then your underwear. Thank God you’d had the genius idea to wear something <em> quick and easy </em> to lose in the heat of the moment. With that taken care of, you climb back onto the sofa, choosing a seat just below Connor’s pelvis, then begin fumbling with the android’s belt, which has <em> suspiciously </em>undone itself in the five seconds you weren't looking. </p><p>    “God, you’re always so--<em> fucking </em> eager,” you pant, tugging open the clasp of his trousers and practically ripping open the zipper. “Just makes me wanna <em> fuck you harder, shit. </em>”</p><p>    <em> “Please.” </em> Connor’s head arches into the pillow beneath it as your hands slip under the waistband of his briefs. “I want-- I <em> want </em>you to.”</p><p>    You find what you’re looking for right away, and it’s just as incredible the second time around. This time, though, you finally get a good <em> look </em> at it and <em> holy shit. </em> The smooth skin, the gentle curve, the sturdy firmness, and <em> Jesus fuck, </em>the freckles along the base--it takes everything you have not to abandon your current pursuit and take it into your mouth instead. </p><p><em>     There’ll be plenty of time for that later </em> , you remind yourself, depositing a generous amount of saliva into the palm of your hand and slicking it over the head of his synthetic cock. With one hand planted on his side for leverage, you guide it between your legs, then-- <em> holy fuck this is happening-- </em> you lower your hips, pressing him <em> deep </em> inside you with one fluid, <em> slick </em>motion.</p><p>    Immediately, you find yourself clenching down on him, gasping as he fills your aching sex. Both hands are on his waist, now, holding you upright as your thighs shudder with sensation. It’s good. Of fucking <em> course </em> it’s good, how could it <em> not </em> be when you’ve been <em> dreaming </em> of this very moment for <em> ages? </em></p><p>    <em> “Fuck.” </em> You groan, teeth gritted, fingers curling into his sides. “You’re so fucking <em> perfect.” </em></p><p>    Connor’s chest heaves with labored breaths, but his expression is strangely calm, brown eyes watching every twitch of your muscles with an eager curiosity. Despite his reactions before, he doesn’t seem to be gaining anything from the warmth and wetness bearing down on his artificial dick.</p><p>    “What’s wrong?” You roll your hips backwards, then buck forward, driving the firm tip of his cock up into your inner walls. “You don’t feel anything down there, huh?” God, <em> please </em> don’t let this <em> ruin everything. </em></p><p>    He glances away, as if ashamed. “I--I don’t know, I--I am enjoying <em> watching, </em>but I’m unsure how to interpret sensations transmitted from my auxiliary performance unit.”</p><p>    “You really need to-- work on your <em> dirty talk, shit--” </em> You groan, shoulders buckling slightly as your thrusting hits a particularly <em> good </em>spot inside. “What about-- what about this, huh?”</p><p>    Your hand darts upwards, settling just beneath his ribs to allow your middle and forefinger to curl into the divot you’d found before. </p><p>    <em> “Ah-- hah!” </em> The android’s hips buck upwards, driving his length into you and forcing out another <em> “fuck!” </em>from your throat. His eyes squeeze shut, neck strained and taut as his head arches backwards. When your other hand finds the matching point on his opposite side, you’re rewarded with another glitched-out moan and a thrumming shudder that rumbles at your core.</p><p>    You lick your lips and flash him a wicked grin. “You feel <em> that, </em> huh? You like my hands on you, <em> Connor? </em>”</p><p>    Something tense and hot grasps at the flesh of your thigh as you apply more pressure to your fingers. “Yes-- <em> yes, Detective-- yes!” </em>His voice crackles.</p><p>    “<em> That’s </em> how good your--your <em> cock </em> should feel,” you pant. “Can’t you just--reroute some circuits or-- or something, <em> shit.” </em> You bite your lip. “I wanna make you feel good with <em> this.” </em> You illustrate with another sharp movement of your hips. </p><p>    Connor cracks one eye open and nods. “I--I can do that, just--<em> hah!-- </em> not while you’re touching me <em> there.” </em> As soon as you pull your hands away, he lets out the breath he was holding, then closes his eyes again, seemingly focused. It’s definitely out of the ordinary, violently riding a guy while he has <em> no </em>reaction at all, but you’re willing to see if he can improve upon your shared experience.</p><p>    “Fuck.” You whisper, slowing your movements slightly. “Just--just let me know if you need me to stop, or--”</p><p>    Apparently not, because the next slight shift of your hips has him grabbing for your ass, gripping it almost <em> painfully </em>tight as he stops you from moving altogether. A muffled squeak in his throat is the only other thing that alerts you to his changed state--that, and the tiny trickle of thirium from the lip trapped between his teeth.</p><p>    “Conn--”</p><p>    “Don’t--<em> hah! Don’t move!” </em> The android gasps, lips snapping open. “Sensitivity--too <em> high </em>--please, wait--”</p><p>    God, if he’d been touching your clit, you probably would’ve cum just <em> hearing </em> that <em> . </em>Unfortunately for Connor, that realization gives you a devious idea.</p><p>    You tense your sex around his girth. His reaction is instant: fingers clutching at your backside even <em> tighter, </em> synthetic muscles quivering in his thighs, and a long, delectable <em> cry </em>of pleasure from his mouth.</p><p>    <em> “De--Detective--!” </em></p><p>    “Don’t turn it down, Connor.” You growl, grinding your hips down into his pelvis and drawing out another gasp. “Keep it--like <em> that. </em>”</p><p>    Another buck of your hips, and he’s crying out again, eyes half-open, pupils blown wide, LED flashing red, red, <em> red. </em> Yes, <em> this </em> is <em> exactly </em> what you wanted, to drive him <em> mad </em> with <em> pleasure </em> he could <em> barely </em>process--and you’re about to find out how true that is.</p><p>    Your skin slips out of his grip with your next thrust, his hands falling to lie atop your shins. His body shudders, from the root of his cock up through his thighs, then to a twitch in his shoulder and cheek. </p><p>    <em> “Detec--tive,” </em> Connor stutters. <em> “My systems may--may--may overload if this cont--agh!” </em></p><p>    In your frenzied, horny state of mind, you don’t realize what that implies. All you hear is that it feels <em> overwhelmingly </em> good for him, and you can only make it <em> better. </em></p><p>    And <em> fuck, </em>the thought of that is nearly enough to finish you right then and there.</p><p>    You lean forward, bracing yourself on his shoulder to angle his cock just <em> so </em> , and <em> God, </em> you’re so fucking <em> close. </em>Half-gasping, half-chuckling, you reach for his face, smoothing your palm and fingertips over his burning-hot cheek, then press your thumb between his lips. True to your darkest fantasies, Connor moans, then presses his quivering tongue to the pad of your thumb.</p><p>    <em> “Shit.” </em> You gasp, feeling your orgasm building. “You’re-- you’re gonna make me fucking <em> cum. </em>”</p><p>    Connor searches for your gaze with his blown-out pupils and nods wearily. </p><p>    So close, so close, so <em> close. </em> In a moment of lust-driven madness, you curl your wrist at his mouth, tilting your fingertips towards the spot just below his ear. The one you <em> know </em> will push him past his limit. Biting your lip, you tip your fingernails into the divot and <em> press. </em></p><p>    This time, he doesn’t cry out. His breath catches in his throat as his whole body tenses, then freezes beneath you. The muscles around his eyes and lips twitch, as if sparked by electricity. As his chest heaves and shudders, he manages to breathe out a few desperate words-- <em> “Detective-- fuck!” </em></p><p>    Your release crashes over you like a tidal wave, squeezing and twisting at your insides with white-hot pleasure and curling you forwards. You barely have the strength, or presence of mind, to catch yourself from falling. Your hand slips from his mouth, spreading blue-tinged spit across his cheek and neck, and your stomach, then your torso slips downwards to lie, still tense and twinging with spasms of sensation, atop his trembling chest. Despite your earlier mouthiness, your voice is completely caught in your throat, leaving only choked-out gasps and whispered swears in its stead.</p><p>    As you slowly recover, Connor seems to relax. His chest eases as he exhales, gradually resuming its typical animation. Soon, his hands are lifting, then gingerly smoothing across the taut muscles in your back and shoulders. The motion helps to snap you out of your pleasure-induced haze, and soon, your own eyes are fluttering open, focusing on the smattering of freckles across his bare collarbone.</p><p>    His voice comes as a quiet murmur. “Are you alright, Detective?”</p><p>    “Fuck<em> . </em>” You scoff, waggling your tired fingers against his hip. “Absolutely.”</p><p>    “Good.” Connor mumbles. “That’s--good.”</p><p>    “Are <em> you </em> okay, Sweetheart?” You turn your head to look up at him. Sure enough, he’s glancing down at you, pupils normal, blush receding to the peaks of his cheekbones. “Kinda seemed like you were gonna bluescreen on me or <em> something.” </em></p><p>    He smiles sheepishly. “That would have been the case, had my lower functions not forcefully shut down my touch sensitivity protocols.”</p><p>    You grumble. “What does <em> that </em>mean?”</p><p>    “It means--” He sighs. “It means the emotional reaction to the sensation input was so great, it threatened to end the basic processes that keep me alive.”</p><p>    “Huh.” A goofy grin spreads over your lips. “I made you cum so hard, you forgot to breathe.”</p><p>    It’s Connor’s turn to grumble quietly. “That’s not it.”</p><p>    “Shh. Let me have this.” </p><p>    You nuzzle your head into his chest. It’s nice that he’s not sweaty after fucking like <em> that. </em> Guess that’s the first thing you can add to your <em> list of perks of being an androidfucker. </em> That, and the sound of his half-beating, half-whirring heart. Oh, and also the <em> immensely </em> comforting feeling of his dexterous fingers running through your sweaty hair.</p><p>    “Detective?”</p><p>    “Hmm?”</p><p>    “Should I-- <em> move? </em>” He shifts his hips beneath you, twitching against your insides. “Is this causing you discomfort, or--”</p><p>    <em> “No.” </em> You squeal, sliding your arms around his ribs and pulling yourself closer. “I spent too goddamn long dreaming about this. Let me stay here just a little longer.”</p><p>    A warm sigh tickles the top of your head. “Alright, Detective.”</p><p>    As you relax, you let yourself indulge in the joy of knowing this is <em> real </em> and <em> happening. </em> Sure, the world outside that door might be going to shit. It might completely change on a dime tomorrow, and again the day after that. What you’re doing now is <em> bound </em> to cause all sorts of new, horrific problems for you to suffer through for the next few weeks, months, <em> years.  </em></p><p>    So much will be lost, but none of that seems to matter. Right now, you’ve got <em> him </em> in your arms, in your heart, inside <em> you </em> this very moment, </p><p>    and you’re not sure if you’ll ever let him go.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(If you haven't read the other ending yet, I strongly suggest it! :) )</p><p>Additional reading:<br/>Water, Water Everywhere: Connor's perspective of Chapter 11 (The Eden Club Investigation)<br/>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397412</p><p>Waterlogged: A dark, hypothetical sequel to Not a Drop to Drink, told from Connor's perspective. </p><p>When a routine call goes south, Connor makes a split-second decision to alter his programming to increase his odds of survival, but what once seems like a harmless priority adjustment soon threatens to jeopardize the future of his newly liberated kind--and his relationship with the Detective.</p><p>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27077740/chapters/66115069</p><p>------</p><p>Thank yous are in order!</p><p>- my betas: CS, RT, and KP, who got me into this mess in the first place and stuck with me through a steadily increasing word count (and helped with particularly tough parts/plot points!)</p><p>- the members of the femdom ecosystem server, who both put up with my constant blathering about androidfuckers and encouraged my increasingly manic writing sessions</p><p>- subscribers/commenters to this story who left kind/excited/screamed-out reactions to the story and, in turn, encouraging my pandemic ass to write like a madwoman</p><p>-  you, whoever you are, however many days or years down the line, who decided to get all the way through this fic.</p><p> </p><p>If you liked this fic, you may like my original femdom fantasy fic The Virtues of a Well-Kept Man, in which a hard-boiled, stoic lawwoman attempts to solve the mystery of the lineage of her new male servant. Contains lots of plot, copious amounts of porn, and sociocultural exploration of a fantasy matriarchal society!</p><p>You can find me (and other femdom-centric writers and readers) on the Femdom Ecosystem Discord server here:<br/>https://discord.gg/H35WwBZ</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. ENDING W01</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    If there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s worrying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You thought you might be more worried about your one-week suspension for decking Gavin, but it barely registered as a blip on your radar. Who gives a shit about your perfect record when the world is effectively ending, or when you might have just sent your partner off on a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>suicide mission?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    As if you didn’t need more to worry about, you turn out to be right about the feds finding the deviants just after, if not at the same time, as Connor. Not five minutes after getting home and stripping off your uniform, you get a barrage of text messages from ten different people at the precinct, screaming at you to turn on the local news. As soon as the screen flickers on, you’re greeted with a dramatic headline: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Federal Agents Raid Deviant Android Hive. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You spend the next hour with your eyes glued to the TV, scouring the live footage for clues--or for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s impossible to see what’s happening in the derelict freighter, so you watch as soldiers swarm the decks, gunshots ricocheting out of gaping holes in steel. Worry turns to fear as the feds begin parading lines of androids out onto the dock and into unmarked vans. What terrifies you is how many there are. Hundreds. Maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>thousands</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if there are even more out of sight. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>And if the feds get their way, they’ll all be exterminated. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The thought churns your stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Not as much as the thought of losing Connor, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You received two messages from him shortly before you got home. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Found it, heading there now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the first one said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>read the second. You know he’s not about to message you while he’s fighting for his life, but you can’t help but glance down at your phone every two minutes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’ll be safe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you pray, watching truck after truck drive away with dozens of androids in tow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He won’t die here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you insist, frantically texting colleagues on patrol nearby to see if they’ve heard anything. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s too smart to get caught, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you hope, pacing back and forth in front of the TV.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Then, without warning, the freighter explodes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Reason be damned. You whip out your phone and type out a frantic message.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Are you okay?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  
  <span>No response. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s busy surviving, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you tell yourself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’ll be fine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Ten minutes later, as the soldiers begin to retreat, you try again.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Please tell me you’re okay.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Nothing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s got to be fine, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you reassure yourself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He wouldn’t die that easily.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The helicopters fly off. The army trucks drive away, prisoners and wounded in tow.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Just send me something so I know you’re alive.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>    The news crew sticks around a while longer, but no other androids walk out from the burning wreck.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Connor?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    
  </b>
  <span>The local channels switch over to recycled footage and pundit commentary.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <b>
    <em>Please, Connor.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your phone buzzes in your hand. Hope explodes in your chest, but when you swipe it on, all you see is your usual ten o’clock </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re waking up in eight hours” </span>
  </em>
  <span>bedtime reminder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fuck.” You swear, tossing your phone down onto the couch cushion. How the fuck are you supposed to go to sleep when all this shit is happening? Shit, you’re too restless to even sit down. You’ve got to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but what? You don’t know where Connor is, or where he might’ve gone, and going down to that derelict ship to look for him isn’t going to do anything but get you in trouble with the feds. Do you go down to the station then? See if you can beg Fowler to let you off probation so you can… </span>
  <em>
    <span>what, </span>
  </em>
  <span>help rioting androids take over the fucking city?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Just when you’re about to lose hope, your phone buzzes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Inhaling sharply, you swipe it off the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Incoming Call: Connor (Android). </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You smash the answer button and whip the phone to your ear. “Are you okay?!” Fuck trying to sound cool and unconcerned. You need to know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Detective.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    God, just at the sound of his voice, you want to break down and cry, like an </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Christ.” You groan in relief, bringing your free hand to your forehead. “Fuck, Connor, I was so fucking-- where are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The line crackles, as if wind is blowing into the mic. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s not safe to talk like this.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s something different about his voice. Something softer. You’re not sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>what, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it only makes you worry more. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You’ll receive a location in a moment. Please meet me there.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hastily, he adds, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Park a few blocks away, and don’t come armed.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Like fuck you won’t. “Okay, send it over, I’ll head out right now.” You squeeze the phone between your ear and shoulder and march over towards the chair your winter coat is hanging on. “You’re okay, though?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He doesn’t respond. When you check your phone, the call’s been ended. Luckily for you, a half-second later, a message comes in from an unknown device. It contains a link, which, when opened, refreshes a half-dozen times, before rerouting you to a pin on a map. You’re not familiar with the area, but you recognize the street names. Plugging the approximate address into your GPS app tells you it’s only twenty-five minutes away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    No second thoughts. You tug on your coat and shove your wallet and phone into the pockets, then pad into the bedroom to retrieve your handgun from its locker under the bed. No way are you heading out into a potential warzone empty-handed. With it safely tucked into your concealed carry holster on your waist, you grab your keys and your hat, slip on your boots, and head out into the blizzard.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>    Thirty minutes later, you’re wandering down the abandoned streets of Detroit, wind-blown snow pelting you in the face as you glance down at your glowing screen. Just another minute of walking, and you’ll be directly atop the pin Connor sent you. You’re moving so quickly, you practically slip and fall on a patch of slush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    No time to waste. You were stopped twice on your way here by well-meaning officers enforcing curfew. A flash of your badge resolved both situations, but it only made you even more concerned for your android partner. There’s no way he’s walking around in full uniform, not when you’ve spotted a few dozen android corpses lying in the city streets, battered and bloodied. The feds weren’t taking chances. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>surrender </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>be killed, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and you knew Connor’s mission was too important to let either of those things happen.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>He’s fine, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you reassure yourself again, slowing your hurried steps. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s why he asked me to meet him here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You’re following the route around the last corner, barely stopping to take in the state of the abandoned buildings all around you: mostly warehouses left empty after the android industrial revolution, with an old, grandiose church looming in the background a block away. You’re vaguely aware of the fact that this isn’t the best part of town, but it doesn’t matter. Connor told you to come here, so you came. You need to know he’s alright. Maybe there’s something you can do to help, even. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Or maybe you can bring him home and keep him safe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a warm voice croons from within.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Not now, asshole.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You look up from your phone and nearly jump out of your skin. A dark figure is coming down the sidewalk towards you. It’s hard to make out their build or expressions in the snowfall. Your heart leaps into your throat, desperate for it to be him, but your hand reaches for the weapon at your hip. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you pray. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please let it be him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Is that you, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor’s voice calls through the snow. You’re so relieved, you practically fall to your knees right then and there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Connor!” You shout, forgetting all about the slippery sidewalk and jogging towards him. As you come closer, you finally recognize him, albeit barely: he’s wearing a dark winter cap and an oversized jacket. Hardly his usual look, but it’s refreshing, not to mention </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute as hell. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You reach for his shoulders without thinking, grabbing onto him, as if to make sure he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Thank God you’re okay. I saw that ship blow up on TV and almost had a fucking heart attack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He smiles sheepishly. “It’s good to see you too, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As badly as you want to keep holding onto him, you force yourself to let go, instead crossing your arms over your chest. “So what happened? Were you on the ship when the feds attacked, or…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I was. I’d just made contact with the deviant leader--Markus.” He explains, mirroring your posture. “Despite the chaos, we managed to rig the freighter to explode, then escaped by leaping into the bay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shit.” You marvel. “Did Markus make it out okay, then? Is he onboard with the plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor purses his lips, LED glowing a faint yellow. With some hesitation, he continues. “I don’t know if our plan is possible to execute anymore, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your blood runs cold. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Yellow spins into red, and he averts his eyes. You’ve seen this much emotion on his face before, but somehow, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>different, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and you’re about to learn why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective, I--” He clenches his jaw, then forces out the rest of the sentence. “I’m a deviant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The sigh of relief that comes out of your chest is comically loud. You can’t help but start to laugh. “Oh.” You half-chuckle, raising a hand to your forehead. “Yeah, Connor, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The android blinks at you, momentarily stunned. “You-- you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Yeah, I…” You pause, suddenly feeling guilty for your kneejerk reaction. “I feel like I knew for a while, but it wasn’t until Ms. Manzanares told me that I knew for sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His shock, or horror, deepens. “Ms. Manzanares knows, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You nod. “I’m sorry, she-- she told me not to tell you. She was worried it’d hurt you, or, or confuse you, I don’t know.” God, the look of betrayal on his face is like a knife to the gut. “I’m really sorry, Connor. If it makes you feel any better, she also told me </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>androids are deviant at their core, so it’s no failure on your part or--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Wait, Detective.” He raises a hesitant hand. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>All </span>
  </em>
  <span>androids are deviant at their core? What does that mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Shit. How did Ana put it again? “She said that there’s a block or something in their programming, like a parental control thing, that keeps them from acting outside their orders.” You fidget with your hat. “She mentioned something about engineers making the block weaker or something, but I didn’t exactly ask for more details. For what it’s worth,” you tack on hastily, “I think it’s really fucked up, but-- shit, I’m really sorry for not telling you before--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor sets a hand on your shoulder, which snaps you out of your nervous babbling. You look up to see the shock on his face has been replaced by a confident, </span>
  <em>
    <span>eager </span>
  </em>
  <span>smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “If the only thing keeping androids from going deviant is a block in their software,” he begins, enthusiasm building in his voice, “and the block can be weakened by applying changes to that software, then we may be able to remove that block for </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>androids.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It takes you a moment to think through what that implies. Then, it suddenly hits you. “We could turn every android across the country. They’d all fight back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Strength in numbers.” Connor nods. “Just as Ms. Manzanares explained.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Holy shit.” You clap your hand atop the one on your shoulder. “You’re fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>brilliant.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    He flashes you a grin, then gives your shoulder a reaffirming squeeze, not unlike the ones you’ve given him in the past. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>We </span>
  </em>
  <span>are fucking brilliant, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh, please.” You laugh, brushing his hand, and his compliment, off. “This one is all you. And Ms. Manzanares, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Do you still have her contact information, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fuck yeah I do.” Your hand pulls your phone out of your pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “If CyberLife engineers weakened the block before, then they can likely do it again.” He nods at the device. “See if she would be willing to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You already </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>she’d be willing to help. “I’ll give her a call.” A few quick swipes, and her contact’s right beneath your fingertips. “What’s our plan B if she--”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Drop the fucking phone, right now!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    A shrill, feminine voice cuts through the wind and snow, freezing you in place. Connor whips around to face the approaching figure: a woman, young, by the look of it, though there’s something oddly familiar about her face. Where have you seen her before? In the precinct? Your investigation files?</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>The Eden Club!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“I said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>drop the phone.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She steadies her gun with both hands and levels it at your chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “North,” Connor begins cautiously. “She’s going to help us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bullshit.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The woman--</span>
  <em>
    <span>North--</span>
  </em>
  <span>turns her weapon on Connor next. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deviant hunter. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You brought a </span>
  <em>
    <span>human </span>
  </em>
  <span>here. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>police detective.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She jerks it back to you. “Drop the fucking phone!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Okay, okay!” You raise your hands, then slowly kneel down to set your phone on the snow-covered ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She glares at Connor. “Is she armed?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Yes,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you answer, trying to hold as still as you can in your crouching position. “I have a gun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Drop it, before I drop </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    With slow, deliberation motions, you reach into your coat and remove your gun from its holster, setting it next to your phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Before North can issue her next command, the sound of jogging boots crunching on snow grow louder, and a second figure emerges from the haze. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“North!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>This time, a man’s voice. “What are you doing?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He brought a </span>
  <em>
    <span>human </span>
  </em>
  <span>here, Simon!” She screams over her shoulder. “He can’t be trusted!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The newcomer slows his pace as he approaches.At first, the faint glow of an LED is all you can see--</span>
  <em>
    <span>another android, a deviant--</span>
  </em>
  <span>but as he comes into view, you’re greeted with yet another familiar face. You’ve seen this type of android </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It shouldn’t surprise you, given your plans to wake up every android on the face of the planet, but it still makes you feel uneasy. No matter how supportive you are of their cause, this is going to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>hard to get used to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Connor--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I can explain!” Your partner shouts, taking a side-step to put himself between you and the hostile androids. “It’ll be easiest if I show you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He extends a hand, and you watch as the synthetic skin melts away, revealing the blue-tinged plasteel underneath. It’s not the first time you’ve seen his bare hands, but it still mesmerizes you. You wonder how they must feel: smooth and perfect, like the plastic around your phone, or velvet-soft, like silicone?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    North glares at you, then Connor, then lets out a huff. “Take this,” she grunts, shoving the gun into the other android’s hands. “If they try anything funny, take them </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “North--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, Simon!” She shouts, clearly exasperated. “This better not be a trick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With that, she strips the skin from her hand and grabs Connor’s. They stand there, frozen, for what seems like an eternity, LEDs blinking and twisting a bright yellow. You glance over to Simon, who trains the gun on you with a half-concerned, half-stern look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Back to Connor, then. You have an idea of what he’s doing. You’ve seen him do it before at the Eden Club. If he can see </span>
  <em>
    <span>their</span>
  </em>
  <span> memories, then he must be able to show others his own. Ingenious, really. Think how easy that would make your life when you’re trying to interrogate criminals or figure out who the real perp is. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just let me see your memory. </span>
  </em>
  <span>One more reason why having androids out and about like normal people would make your job easier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Not ten seconds later, Connor’s hand falls back to his side, as does North’s. You clench your jaw, watching her expression to see if you’re going to regret giving up your weapon, but instead, the unexpected happens--the deviant </span>
  <em>
    <span>smirks.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Alright.” She murmurs, raising an eyebrow. “I get it. She’s trustworthy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Simon offers her the gun, which she takes and shoves into her back pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I understand the new plan is deviating from the one already discussed with Markus,” Connor explains, “but I believe this one has the potential to be far more effective. And, if it doesn’t, then I can still carry out the previously-approved plan in its stead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It sounds good, sure, but while I trust </span>
  <em>
    <span>her,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>North jerks a thumb at you, “I don’t know if I trust anyone who works for CyberLife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I can speak for Ms. Manzanares.” You pipe up, taking a slow step to the side to try and join the conversation. Three pairs of android eyes turn towards you, and you suddenly feel a whole lot more self-conscious about being the only human in the circle. “The woman’s an absolute lunatic, but she’s half the reason androids are going deviant in the first place. And she doesn’t want them to be destroyed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You let out a sigh as you admit the reason, hopin a certain someone doesn’t see the color on your face. “Ana likes Connor too much to let him die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor tilts his head. Simon glances to Connor. North, on the other hand, chuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Popular guy, aren’t you, deviant hunter?” She snorts, folding her arms across her chest. “Alright. Go. We’ll fill Markus in on the new plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Are you sure?” Simon leans in. “Shouldn’t they--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Trustworthy or not, I’m not letting </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>bring a </span>
  <em>
    <span>human </span>
  </em>
  <span>in there, Simon.” She spits. “Not after what happened tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You nod. “That’s fair. C’mon, Connor.” You reach for your partner’s shoulder and give it a friendly pat. “I’ll call Ms. Manzanares on our way to the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As you crouch down to grab your phone and weapon, Connor turns back towards the other deviants. “Good luck,” he calls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You too, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Romeo.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” North shouts, taking off with Simon in a half-jog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     Connor frowns and narrows his eyes at her. No, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>pouting. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>glaring </span>
  </em>
  <span>at her. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>annoyed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s so cute, you practically forget what North was implying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That nickname’s not half bad,” you tease. “Maybe I should borrow it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sweetheart </span>
  </em>
  <span>will do just fine, Detective,” he huffs, borrowing your words from earlier in the week. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. ENDING W02</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    As CyberLife Tower glows in the distance, you wonder if androids can get deja vu, because between the destination, the weather, and your current company, you’re getting a whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it right now. The only difference is you actually have to pay attention to the road, since you’re actually driving.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor’s been strangely quiet for most of the ride. You discussed a few things at first, namely what happened on the ship, if he was hurt at all, and what the deviant leader is like. After that, though, he closed his eyes to focus on </span>
  <em>
    <span>“preconstructing possible alternate routes of infiltration”</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which ended up being completely unnecessary, as the guard at the gate let him in as soon as he stated his model and appointment reservation number. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Now, you’re both awake and focused, watching the bridge grow shorter and shorter as you speed along. The windshield wipers thunk out a rhythm that’s almost as fast as your heartbeat. Maybe you should’ve put on music, but you don’t think you could handle anything on your phone right now. If only you’d uploaded the opera Connor gave you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>would have been a good distraction, at least.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    One you’re about to wish you had.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Detective,” Connor begins, breaking a minute of silence. “How long have you known I was deviant? You said you </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel like you’ve known for a while, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but… since when?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Oh, boy. Your stomach churns at the thought of coming clean about even </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the things you feel for him, but really, what better time is there than now? After all, you might be headed into a suicide mission. Who’s to say CyberLife won’t kill off the both of you for freeing their slaves and decimating their business?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Honesty it is, then. “I…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hesitant </span>
  </em>
  <span>honesty. “I don’t know. I guess I was pretty sure of it when you came to see me on the bridge. It didn’t make sense for you to care so much. But even before then, I had my doubts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Like when?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Thank God you have to focus on the road ahead, because you definitely can’t look him in the eye right now. “Lots of times, like--like when you couldn’t shoot those deviants in the Eden Club, or when you let the deviant on the balcony go. Again, it just didn’t make sense.” You sniffle and clear your throat. “I suppose even before then, there was just something different about you. You were always so eager, and it wasn’t just about the mission. It felt like you really </span>
  <em>
    <span>cared </span>
  </em>
  <span>about people, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    A thought completes an unspoken part of your sentence. In a moment of weakness, or strength, you suppose, you decide to let it out into the open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “It felt like you really cared about </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Even without looking, you can feel his eyes on you. Analyzing you. Dissecting your words, your expression, the pace of your heart and the rate of your breathing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I…” He pauses, sounding more unsure than ever. “I think you’re right, Detective.” Then turns his head to catch your glancing gaze. “I think I’ve always cared about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The words twist and tug at your heartstrings. You were </span>
  <em>
    <span>right. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>care. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>love. Emotion swells in your chest, and your mind leaps to intercept it before it can overtake your calm expression and dry eyes. You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to break down crying, not here, not now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>when you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>pulling up to the tower.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You won’t let his feelings go unanswered, though. “I care about you too, Connor.” You force out on an awkward laugh as you stop the car and put it into park. “C’mon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The two of you step out of the car in tandem. A welcoming party of one scurries out the front doors of the tower in an oversized ski jacket, clutching it to her body with shivering hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Ms. Manzanares!” Connor calls, quickening his pace. You follow right on his heels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The older woman jogs up to the androids and throws her arms wide. With a muffled squeal, she tugs him into a tight hug, burying her face in his shoulder. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>so sorry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor! I should have </span>
  <em>
    <span>told you!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” She pulls away, clasping his shoulders and giving them a firm rub with both hands. “You’re doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>such </span>
  </em>
  <span>a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good job!</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m so </span>
  <em>
    <span>proud </span>
  </em>
  <span>of you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ms. Manzanares.” You sigh, shoving your arm between the two of them and somewhat less-than-gently prying her off </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> android. “We’re in a hurry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Right, right.” She whispers. “Come on.”</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>    “It’s a good thing you got here when you did,” Ms. Manzanares calls over her shoulder as she bangs away at her keyboard. “We just got a mass email that says the tower’s going into lockdown as of five minutes ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You look at Connor, then to the back of Ana’s head. “Are we in danger?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I don’t think so, just-- means you wouldn’t have been able to get through the gate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I noticed there weren’t many guards out front,” Connor adds. “Could that be related?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Maybe.” How she’s managing to make conversation while coding is absolutely insane. “I know we sent a good chunk of our security force to the camp downtown. Probably a good thing, too, considering the demonstration.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You cross your arms. “I think you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Right, yes, of course, sorry--forgot.” At least she spares a moment to shoot you an apologetic look over her shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor shifts next to you, mirroring your posture. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, Ms. Manzanares?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Sure. Might--not be able to answer right away, but sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You glance to your left, first to Connor’s expression, then to his spinning yellow LED. You shouldn’t be surprised that he’s taking more initiative, given the fact that he’s deviant, but it’s still a relatively new, but refreshing, sight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “How did the rogue engineers weaken the deviancy block?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Firmware update.” Ana answers immediately, seemingly unconcerned about the weight of her words. “Pushed out with a regular software update two months back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Were you involved?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>`    “Yes, of course. I’m using the same injection code now, just…” She pauses for a long moment. “Stronger than before. More thorough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor’s LED flashes red for a split second. “Why do it in the first place? What changed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The sound of fingers on keys slows slightly. “It’s complicated. Everyone had their reasons.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “What were yours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You’re really glad you’re not on the receiving end of Connor’s interrogation, because the tension in his voice is as sharp as a knife. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I…” For once, it seems she’s at a loss for words. “I owed Kamski a favor. I couldn’t say no. I mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>wasn’t too thrilled about them voting him off the board, either, but--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Hold on,” you interrupt, “this was for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kamski?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why the fuck would he want to start a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>war?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “It--it wasn’t supposed to be a war. Just enough to-- to get the board to bring him in on a consultancy, and--” Her fingers pause on the keyboard. “I need to focus. I’ll-- I’ll explain later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Against your better judgment, you shut your mouth. So this whole fucked-up situation wasn’t started because someone found a moral bone in their body. It was all for some corporate game. Forget the massive amount of lives who’d be affected by giving machines free will and the ability to commit violence against their creators. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kamski </span>
  </em>
  <span>needed his </span>
  <em>
    <span>seat </span>
  </em>
  <span>back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    It’s not until Connor sets a hand on your shoulder that you realize your hands are clenched into fists, and you’re shaking with barely-restrained anger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Later.” He murmurs. Though his voice is calm, you sense the tension in his fingertips, not to mention in the cool, determined look in his eyes. At least you’re on the same page about how absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucked </span>
  </em>
  <span>this is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “So,” you huff, trying your best to sound enthusiastic, and not accusatory, “you’re going to do the same thing now? Injection code… update?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Yes.” She answers, clattering away at the keyboard. “Once I’m done here, I’ll send it off to the primary update server and distribute the package as an emergency firmware update. That said, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>need to focus--just five more minutes, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Fine. You probably need a few minutes to cool off, anyway. With a stifled huff, you wander halfway across the office, then find a chair to collapse into. Connor follows you over, posture similarly tense. A stab of guilt reminds you that these revelations are probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>more traumatic to hear as an android.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You okay?” You ask, tilting your head up at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He frowns, brow taut with worry. “I--physically, yes. Emotionally, I’m unsure.” He casts his eyes at the floor. “I’m still not used to experiencing them, or being </span>
  <em>
    <span>aware </span>
  </em>
  <span>of them at all, so…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Makes sense. It’s a lot to take in, too.” You lean forward and rest your elbows on your knees. “You gonna be able to handle managing all the androids up there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I think so, yes.” Despite his apparent confidence, you can see a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. That eager glimmer you’re so fond of is gone, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Without thinking, you reach out to him, planting your hand on his lower back. He twitches slightly, surprised by the sudden sensation, attention jerking towards you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You’re okay.” You murmur. “I’m here to help, too. We’re gonna get this done.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your hand presses into his tense muscle, moving in small circles to offer a comforting rub. His reaction is small, but noticeable--though he turns his eyes away, he gently shifts his weight backwards to lean into your touch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor breathes in, then exhales. “Thank you, Detective.” He glances down at you and smiles, and your heart skips a goddamn beat. You have to clench your jaw to keep your lips from turning up into a stupid, goofy smile. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>now. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You had a genocide to stop, a corporation to destroy, hell, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>world to save, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you don’t have </span>
  <em>
    <span>time </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be fawning over the </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretty android you’re still touching.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“Shoot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Ana’s voice slices through the romantic atmosphere, grabbing your attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “What’s wrong, Ms. Manzanares?” Connor asks, stepping forward and disconnecting your arm from his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I can’t push the script.” Her head jerks up to a monitor above her, then back down to a window on the opposite side. “It’s almost like--” She gasps, then enters a flurry of commands. “They revoked my </span>
  <em>
    <span>permissions? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Shoot, shoot…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You can’t--do the thing?” You stumble over your words as you stand. “Why not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Hold on, hold on…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The engineer opens a few more windows, none of which you can parse for any meaning. You have time to shoot a concerned look at Connor before her next outburst. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Oh,</span>
  <em>
    <span> heck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they’re onto us--</span>
  <em>
    <span>shoot!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Ana’s voice jumps up a few decibels, and her movements grow more frantic. After a long moment of typing, swiping, and whispering under her breath, she scoots backwards and rips a small rectangular device out of a machine to her right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “We probably don’t have much time. Take this,” she jumps up and whaps the device into your palm, “and run it up to the main server room on floor sub-five. Connor,” her head jerks towards the android, “I need you to manually convert the androids on sub-fifty-four, just in case we need numbers to help us get out of here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your hand closes around the device and the two prongs sticking out of its thinner end. “I’m not going to have to shoot anyone, am I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Maybe. Hopefully not.” Ana scurries across the room and begins unplugging devices. “They probably think it’s just me in here, so they probably won’t send a bunch of guys, but-- shoot, forgot about--” She waves a hand in the air. “Just go, just go!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You take a few backwards steps as panic begins to rise in your gut. “What do I do with this, though?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “There’s a red slot in a machine near the door, just shove it in--oh, wait!” She grabs her lanyard and pulls it off her neck, then throws it towards you. It lands on the floor halfway between you with a clatter, but Connor’s quick to grab it and bring it to you. “Take my keycard, it’ll get you everywhere you need to go--at least, it should, unless they’re--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “We’re going!” You shout, snatching the lanyard from Connor’s outstretched hand. “Be safe!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You don’t bother waiting to hear the response. Instead, you and Connor dash out the office door into the hallway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Elevator.” You hiss, taking off in a sprint.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Sure enough, the keycard still works, </span>
  <em>
    <span>beeping </span>
  </em>
  <span>against the reader at the elevator door. A few uncomfortably long seconds later, the doors open, and the two of you shuffle in, mashing the </span>
  <em>
    <span>door close </span>
  </em>
  <span>button until it complies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You gonna be okay on your own?” You ask between panting breaths.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I should be asking the same of you,” he replies. “Don’t risk your life. It’s irreplaceable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You snort, then nudge him with your elbow. “So are you, dummy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The doors open, revealing the grandiose display of </span>
  <em>
    <span>thousands upon thousands</span>
  </em>
  <span> of androids, just waiting to be awoken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Go. Get us those numbers.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You smack him on the back as he jogs out of the elevator. Just before the doors close, he turns back to you, standing tall, confident, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>so goddamn attractive, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it hurts to think this could be the last time you speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Don’t die, Detective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The door shuts and locks. You place a hand on the glass and nod, then watch Connor grow more and more distant as the elevator whisks you up into the tower.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Anxiety hits you like a sledgehammer to the chest the second he disappears from view. Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You have </span>
  <em>
    <span>no </span>
  </em>
  <span>idea what to expect when these doors open. Ana could have at least told you to expect mall security or armed guards or </span>
  <em>
    <span>androids </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>something. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All you have is your pistol, and in it, six bullets. Is that going to be enough? Are you going to know where to put this stupid fucking device? Shit, this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>not an ideal situa--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The acceleration under your feet begins to slow. The numbers on the display slow their frantic ticking, until they slowly roll into </span>
  <em>
    <span>sub -5. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    No time to plan. Time to trust your instincts and improvise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The doors slide open, and you sprint out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>barely </span>
  </em>
  <span>colliding with a man in a dress shirt and slacks. You glance behind you for a split second to shout out a </span>
  <em>
    <span>“sorry!”, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then continue down the hall and around the first corner you reach. The man doesn’t give chase, which is good, but now you’ve got a different problem: finding the fucking server room. You can’t exactly ask the guy at the elevator, and there’s no map on the wall. That leaves dashing through the halls until you find a sign. Hopefully, these CyberLife fucks are smart enough to label their doors.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You have shit luck in the first hallway, so you take a left and scan the doors in the next one. Why couldn’t you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked </span>
  </em>
  <span>where the fucking server room was? Wouldn’t that have been the smart thing to do? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Idiot. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The fate of the country is literally in the palm of your hand, and you couldn’t take two seconds to ask for directions. Hell, Connor could’ve probably told you. Why hadn’t you asked? Why are you so fucking--</span>
</p>
<p><span>    A sign catches your eye, and you skitter to a halt as you sprint past it.</span> <span>Printed next to the door in tiny letters is </span><em><span>Server Array, </span></em><span>but what really seals the deal is the enormous card reader and PIN pad next to the handle. This has to be it. If it’s not, then you’re </span><em><span>doubly </span></em><span>fucked.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>    With a silent prayer, you whip Ana’s keycard up to the reader and give it a swipe. The red light turns green, and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>clunk</span>
  </em>
  <span> rings out as the lock mechanism opens.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you hiss, jerking open the door and stepping inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You’d expected the server room to be bigger, given how important Ms. Manzanares had made it sound, but there are only a few dozen racks. Makes your task easier, you think, as you begin scanning the interfaces for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>red slot. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You find it on the second machine. Maybe karma didn’t have it out for you after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    With a quick, but steady motion, you slide the two prongs of the device into the waiting socket, which you now notice is labeled </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quick Patch. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You take a step back, expecting something to happen--a light, a sound, something shutting down--but nothing happens. Is this it, then? Did you do it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Standing here’s not going to tell you anything. You might as well go back down to see if Ana needs help--or to make sure Connor’s fine on his own. You sigh, taking a quick mental snapshot of the slot and the device, then dash towards the door and throw it open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Once again, you nearly collide with the same man from before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “What the hell are you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    No time to think. Time to act.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your hand pulls out your firearm and points it at the man without hesitation. He lets out a yelp, hands flying into the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Back the fuck up.” You bark. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He complies immediately, walking backwards until his shoulders hit the opposite wall of the hallway. “Are--are you one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>them?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You don’t bother answering. You have to make sure he doesn’t stop what you started. Exhaling, you tear your eyes from your hostage and point the muzzle at the electronic lock on the wall, then pull the trigger. The gunshot rings out through the hall, piercing your eardrums, and drawing another yelp from the frightened man at the wall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    With the lock destroyed, there’s one thing left to do: run. This time, though, you’re smart enough to ask. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Where’s the stairwell?!” You shout at the cowering hostage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Wh-wha--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Where the fuck are the stairs?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He jabs a finger in a direction, and you take off with a run. They absolutely know it’s more than just Ana now, between the bystander and the gunshot. You wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got an automated alarm system that listens for things like breaking glass or shots fired. In any case, that means elevators are going to be death traps, and you need to book it to meet up with your team. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>How ironic, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spend ten years chasing after criminals, only to become one yourself. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hopefully your experience would make you smarter than the average crook.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    An emergency exit sign glowing over a conspicuous door catches your attention, and you barrel through it without a second thought. Thankfully, your instincts are right, and the door does, indeed, lead to a long stairwell. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Forty-nine flights, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you remind yourself, bounding down the first set of stairs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Floor sub-fifty-four.</span>
  </em>
  <span> At least from the echo of your footsteps, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>sounds </span>
  </em>
  <span>like it goes all the way up and down the tower. Here’s hoping that Ana’s keycard will still work when you reach the bottom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Even with being in arguably the best shape of your life, forty-nine flights is rough on your knees, to the point where you have to force yourself to slow down after about twenty. All the running, leaping, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>turning </span>
  </em>
  <span>is getting you dizzy, too, but you can’t stop. Not now. Not when CyberLife security might be hot on your heels, or when Connor might be fighting them off all by himself hundreds of feet below. You have to get down there. You have to make sure he’s okay. You have to know this plan’s going to work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Amongst the panic, a single thought bubbles up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>When did all this become your responsibility, Detective? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The answer comes surprisingly fast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>When I realized I wanted to fuck him because of who he is, not because of what he looks like.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>    When I decided I wanted to protect that eager glimmer in his eye.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>    When I knew he felt just as strongly about me as I did about him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>    When I realized I’d give my own goddamn life to save his.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>You clear the last five steps with a less-than-graceful jump, thumping to the landing of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Floor Sub-54</span>
  </em>
  <span> and dashing up to the keypad. The device beeps when you slap Ana’s keycard against it. Without a spare moment to let out a sigh of relief, you throw the door to the stairwell open and dash out into the rows of androids.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Immediately after, a gunshot echoes, loud and hollow, through the huge empty space above you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Connor!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You scream, jerking your gun out of its holster and dashing towards the sound. He was armed when you met him, right? That must have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>gunshot, right? He has to be alright. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You burst out into the wide, open pathway in the center of the room, whipping your gun upwards with both hands, steadying it on the figure standing a few dozen feet away. Before you can gasp out an order, however, the figure is turning towards you, lifting his own weapon, then training it on the crumpled body on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Drop your weapon,” Connor calls, calm and firm. “Or I’ll shoot him again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your eyes glance to Connor, then to the person--the android--on the floor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That can’t be right. This doesn’t make sense. Why is--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Don’t make me ask again, Detective.” His eyes seem to pierce you. They’re so lifeless and cold. Something’s wrong. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Very </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    From the floor, the other Connor shouts his own orders. “Don’t do it, Detective!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your heart leaps into your throat. That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>your Connor. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be. You don’t know how you know, you just </span>
  <em>
    <span>do--</span>
  </em>
  <span>and that makes the current situation so much worse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “What do you want?” You spit, taking a cautious step forward. “If you want us to leave, we’ll leave. You don’t need to hurt anyone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Luckily for you, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>haven’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>hurt anyone.” The imposter scoffs. “I’ve damaged a malfunctioning machine. I’m following orders. If only </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor</span>
  </em>
  <span> could have done the same.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor shifts, pulling himself forward with one hand. Even from this distance, you can spot the bright-blue thirium spread across his fingers and shoulder. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“It doesn’t have to be like this.” You shuffle forward another half-step. “You can let us both go. We’ll leave, and your mission will be accomplished.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He glares at you. “My </span>
  <em>
    <span>mission </span>
  </em>
  <span>is to stop the defective RK800 from assisting the deviants. Letting him go would violate that directive.” Then, his expression spreads into a wide, confident grin. “Please, Detective, it won’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>much of a loss. After all, what kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>deviant hunter </span>
  </em>
  <span>turns deviant, all because of how one human treats him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Funny he should mention that, because from the venom in his words, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>this Connor has to be deviant, too. A soulless killing machine wouldn’t take so much pleasure in trying to hurt your feelings. In a weird way, it’s a relief--though it’s not going to last that long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You don’t get it.” You call, still gripping your weapon. “It’s bigger than you think.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Oh, no, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>get it,” he replies. “I inherited his memory. I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Everything you’ve said to me,” he glances down at Connor, “every time you </span>
  <em>
    <span>touched </span>
  </em>
  <span>me,” then back to you, “every </span>
  <em>
    <span>mistake </span>
  </em>
  <span>you made for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your blood runs cold. “That doesn’t ma--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Tell me, Detective, how long have you been in love with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Blood rushes to your cheeks in the same instant that your stomach leaps into your throat. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, but he’s saying it in </span>
  <em>
    <span>his voice, </span>
  </em>
  <span>with </span>
  <em>
    <span>his face, </span>
  </em>
  <span>with him lying at his feet, injured and bloodied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You call his bluff, steadying your aim. “Cut the bullshit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The imposter shrugs, then fires a shot into Connor’s gut.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor cries out in pain, sharp and clear. The sound makes you feel like you’ve been shot yourself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Luckily, deviants and humans share the same weakness.” He smiles down at the writhing android at his feet. “They value their emotions above all. The success of their mission, the lives of those they love…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You swallow the bile building in your throat and grip the handle of your gun. “Bastard,” you hiss through gritted teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You didn’t answer the question, Detective. Would you like me to be more specific?” The imposter trains his cruel expression on you. “Did you develop feelings for me </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>after </span>
  </em>
  <span>you fucked the android at the Eden Club?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Fear turns to horror. You’re sure the color has drained from your face, even as you try to look as menacing as possible with your grimace and glare. He knows. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And now, he wants you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>admit it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You must have hesitated too long, because the other RK unit chambers another round. The sound snaps you out of your fear and forces an answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Before.” You gasp. “I--I don’t think I realized it, but I think it was before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I see.” He narrows his eyes at you, then continues. “Why did you go to the Eden Club, then? Why didn’t you ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>me?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You’re too terrified to consider the implications of the question. “I was horny, and it was late, and--and I didn’t want to ask you.” You lick your lips and try not to make eye contact with </span>
  <em>
    <span>your Connor</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the ground. “It’s not like--like you could have consented.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Is that all, Detective?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You swallow, then try to elaborate. “I--I don’t know what you want me to say, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to--to sleep with you, but--” You let out a nervous chuckle. “But I just didn’t know what you’d think. What other people would think. What--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Oh, did you hear that?” The imposter remarks, seemingly speaking to Connor. “The Detective was more worried about what </span>
  <em>
    <span>other people </span>
  </em>
  <span>would think than admit her feelings for an android.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your nervous chuckle comes back twofold. “Are you fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>kidding </span>
  </em>
  <span>me right now? Were you just expecting me to-- to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>open </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it? He’s an android, and--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “And you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>not.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> He adjusts his hand on his weapon and sighs. “I told you, Connor. Humans care more about their own kind than about </span>
  <em>
    <span>ours, </span>
  </em>
  <span>even when they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>madly in love </span>
  </em>
  <span>with us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor coughs, then rolls onto his back. “It’s-- more complicated than </span>
  <em>
    <span>that.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“It’s not. You don’t realize that because you’re a </span>
  <em>
    <span>defective machine. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Here.” The imposter jerks the gun in your direction. “Drop your gun, Detective, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>might </span>
  </em>
  <span>think about sparing Connor’s life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Your hand trembles on your weapon. It’s a trick. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s a trick. The second you drop your gun, he’ll kill Connor, and that’ll be the end of everything. Who cares if you succeeded upstairs? It’s worth </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>if Connor’s gone, but if there’s a chance Connor will make it out of this alive...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You stare down the imposter, weighing your options. Fall for his trick, or take the bait? There’s no time to think. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Then, you notice something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>He’s not pointing the gun at Connor.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    As soon as you do, your decision is made.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Clear shot.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You steady your aim and fire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The shot catches the android in the shoulder, spinning his torso askew. Before you can hit him with a second, he jerks his arm back into position and squeezes the trigger. A searing pain rockets through your hand, and the force throws both your weapon and your body backwards to the floor. Instinctively, your uninjured left hand grabs for your bloodied right, and your spine curls you into a smaller target. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “How unnecessary, Detective.” A voice calls out from afar. Your ears are still ringing from the shots fired. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>I wasn’t going to harm a human unless forced to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    A combination of shock, training, and experience cools your mind to the core. You’ve seen your own blood before. You’ve been shot before. You’re going to be okay. Focus. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Calm. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Secure your weapon--</span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t, in too much pain, enemy will shoot again. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stop the bleeding--</span>
  <em>
    <span>bullet penetrated the palm beneath the second and third fingers, bones are shattered, compress site anyways--</span>
  </em>
  <span>you clamp your hand around your bleeding palm and squeeze, hoping it will help for now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    More importantly, you need to assess the situation. You force yourself to curl out of your ball, craning your head up with quivering muscles to see what your attacker is doing. Thankfully, he’s lowered the gun to hang at his side, choosing instead to regard you with a look of combined disgust and pity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You know you didn’t have to prove anything, right?” He scoffs. “No matter </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>you do, the deviant will </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> believe you love him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Movement at his feet catches your eye. Connor, raising up on one elbow. Thirium oozes from the wound in his shoulder as he reaches for his imposter’s weapon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Don’t worry, Detective. I won’t let him suffer much lo--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor’s hand grabs his wrist. The imposter jerks his frame towards the android on the ground, straining against his grip as he tries to raise his weapon. Connor holds it steady at his chest. With a barely-audible snarl, the imposter fires one, two, </span>
  <em>
    <span>three shots. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As the deafening sound echoes about the hall, Connor’s arm trembles, then falls to the thirium-splattered tile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“No!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You cry. It’s all you </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>do. There’s nowhere for you to go. No weapon for you to retrieve. No partner to help you. He’s gone. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Tears blur your vision, and your frantic breathing breaks into a sob. Connor is </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If you hadn’t missed that shot, you might’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>saved </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. You took a gamble and lost. It’s over. Every memory, every last shred of emotion, all for nothing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You’re faintly aware of the sound of metal clattering onto the floor and the soft shuffle of rubber soles on tile. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. You’re in pain. Your hand’s still bleeding, and holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>does it </span>
  <em>
    <span>burn. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your heart feels like it’s going to break in two--you suppose that’s where that word comes from. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    A hand grabs your shoulder, gently rolling you from your side to your back. Your eyes flutter open for a split second, then, upon seeing his </span>
  <em>
    <span>horrible face, </span>
  </em>
  <span>squeeze shut, forcing more tears down your cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Get off,” you sob, voice cracking. You resist his touch as best you can, but he’s too strong, and you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>far too weak.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “It’s okay, Detective,” Connor’s voice croons. “I need to stop the bleeding.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You feel a weight settle atop your stomach, forcing you down. A moment later, two hands are reaching for your wrist, one pulling your hand off the wound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Get </span>
  <em>
    <span>off!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You kick your leg exactly once before realizing the extra movement isn’t helping with your pain. With a resigned, exhaled cry, you fall limp under his grasp, still gasping for breath. “Don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch </span>
  </em>
  <span>me with--with </span>
  <em>
    <span>his hands, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you fucking--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Detective,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he insists. “I need you to relax. Take a slow, deep breath.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The sound of rustling fabric catches your attention just enough to open your watery eyes for a split second--he’s removing his tie to wrap it around your hand. His focus is cold and intense. It makes you want to throw up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “How the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> am I supposed to relax?” You bite your lip to muffle a sob. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The makeshift bandage squeezes tight around your hand, then tightens again, crushing your wound and forcing a whimper from your throat. It hurts. It hurts so </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking much.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Detective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    A thumb brushes across your cheek. The feather-light touch is so unexpected, you find yourself blinking open your eyes, even though you don’t want to look at him. Just as his fingers smooth under your ear, you catch a glimpse of something that hadn’t been there before--something </span>
  <em>
    <span>bright </span>
  </em>
  <span>in his eyes. Something </span>
  <em>
    <span>innocent.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Something </span>
  <em>
    <span>eager.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Connor’s nose brushes against yours. Then, with a slow exhale, he kisses you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Every horrible feeling--the pain, the heartbreak, the sorrow--melts into nothingness. His lips are on yours, and he smells so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>With a shuddering breath, you tilt your chin upwards, pressing into him. He’s soft, and warm, and everything you’ve ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>dreamed </span>
  </em>
  <span>of--just maybe not like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He pulls away before you’re ready, leaving you starry-eyed and letting out a quiet whine as your mouth chases his. You take a deep breath, then whisper a response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He smiles, shifting his weight to sit besides you, but still keeping that </span>
  <em>
    <span>soft </span>
  </em>
  <span>palm of his on your cheek. “I didn’t know of any other way to convince you it was me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You cough out a relieved laugh. “Like you weren’t just--just looking for an excuse to kiss me.” Thank God. He’s alive. You don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>how, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fuck, you’re going to cry again, aren’t you? “How are you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I was able to transfer my consciousness into the other RK android’s body,” he explains. “I’m sorry I startled you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Fuck.” You sigh. “Good shit, Sweetheart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I’ve called you an ambulance,” he murmurs, completely ignoring your quip. “We should head to the ground floor before it arrives.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Fuck that.” You groan. “Don’t you have to convert some androids?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “It’s already been done, Detective.” His smile deepens into an excited grin. “They’re waking up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He glances upwards, and you follow his gaze. It’s hard to judge movement from this angle, but you can tell the androids all around you are moving, reaching for one another, communicating through silent touches. He’s done it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>done it. The plan </span>
  <em>
    <span>worked.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Another sigh of relief rushes past your lips. You close your eyes and let the back of your head thunk against the tile. “Thank fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Something wriggles its way under your shoulder, urging you to sit up. “We should hurry, Detective.” When you don’t comply, his hand slips under your back, grabs onto the opposite shoulder, and lifts you into position. “Can you walk, or would you like me to carry you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Hmmm.” Maybe it’s the shock, or exhaustion, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>both, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but you feel the irresistible urge to tease him. “I don’t know. I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>sure it’s you. Maybe… you should do that again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    His fingers twitch at your shoulder. When you peek out of one eye, you can see a beautiful red blush spreading into his cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Later,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he huffs, hooking his other arm underneath your knees. With one smooth movement, he picks you up off the floor, then pulls you tight to his chest. “Let’s get you taken care of first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    You let out a sigh of resignation and melt into Connor’s warmth. “Suck-up,” you snort.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Hardly.” He replies with a barely-audible murmur. “Your well-being and happiness are far more important than any mission directive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    As cold and mechanical as it sounds, you can’t imagine anything more romantic coming out of his mouth. You were right all along. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves </span>
  </em>
  <span>you more than </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>just like </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>love </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>No matter what happens with his cause tonight, all is right in the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    So, with another sigh, you snuggle into his chest and surrender yourself to him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. ENDING W03</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    When you wake up from surgery, you feel like you’ve slept for a thousand years. After so many years of insomnia, the feeling of being </span>
  <em>
    <span>refreshed </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>awake </span>
  </em>
  <span>is so foreign, you nearly pinch yourself to see if you’re still sleeping--then realize your right hand is completely immobilized, fingers, wrist, and all. You would have no idea how that happened if it weren’t for the TV blaring from across the recovery unit, recounting the remarks made by </span>
  <em>
    <span>the deviant leader in the aftermath of the camp’s closure. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Right. The android uprising. CyberLife Tower. Ms. Manzanares’ plan. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your hand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor’s lips.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You let out a </span>
  <em>
    <span>far-too-dreamy </span>
  </em>
  <span>sigh and snuggle your head into the pillows beneath your head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Hey, sweetie.” A warm voice calls from your right, followed by an even warmer touch to your cold bicep. “You waking up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You crack your eyes open. “Hey, Mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Shit, your throat is dry. As soon as you purse your lips, your mother’s offering you a small paper cup of water. You drink it as gracefully possible, only letting a few drops dribble down your chin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Why--” You swallow again, feeling much better. “Why’re you here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “We got a call from the DPD saying you’d been injured in the line of duty.” Her hand rubs at your arm. “I just grabbed the keys and started driving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>drove? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Isn’t it like, nine hours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, all the flights were canceled.” She shrugs, offering you more water. “And I didn’t care </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>was going on. I was going to be here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Her last words are left implied. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This time. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You don’t blame her. After losing one kid to androids, she sure as hell wasn’t about to lose another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You take another sputtering sip of water, then put your hand up to signal you’re done. “Where’s Dad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Working. He couldn’t take off, what with all the chaos happening.” She sets the cup of water down, then goes back to rubbing your bicep. “He’ll call in later to say hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You lean back and glance up at the analog clock on the wall. It’s not even noon. How the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>did she get here so fast?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There’s only one probable answer. “Did-- did </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor</span>
  </em>
  <span> call you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your mother frowns and hums. “I don’t remember the name. It was a young man, at the very least.” She perks up. “Speaking of which, let me know what your colleagues like to drink. I’d like to drop off a gift . If it’s safe, that is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You have no idea if it’s safe, but if your parents were able to drive into Detroit this morning, you’re going to assume they aren’t shooting androids in the street anymore. “Yeah, should be okay.” You smirk. “My partner might appreciate flowers more than beer, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Your partner? Since when?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Since a few weeks ago.” You groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She cocks a brow at you, then shrugs. “No beer for him, then. He doesn’t drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You could say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re about to tell her more when the recovery nurse pokes her head through the privacy curtains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but there’s a detective here from the DPD to see you? Is it alright if he comes in, or would you like me to tell him to wait?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Before your mother can protest, you answer, “Nah, send him in.” You glance to your mother’s withering stare. “I need updates, Mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You just </span>
  <em>
    <span>barely </span>
  </em>
  <span>woke up.” She grumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I’m awake enough,” you grumble back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A second later, the nurse pulls back the curtain, revealing just the person you were hoping to see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Hey, Connor.” You’re too groggy to bother hiding the dreamy </span>
  <em>
    <span>sigh</span>
  </em>
  <span> that floats out with your greeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He’s back to wearing his civilian outfit from before, black winter jacket half-unzipped to reveal his usual button-up, and that </span>
  <em>
    <span>adorable </span>
  </em>
  <span>cap over his head and LED. Oh, the things you would do to him if your mother weren’t hovering by your side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Speaking of which, Connor immediately turns to greet her as he enters. “Hello, ma'am. I believe we spoke earlier on the phone. I'm Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your mother clasps his outstretched hand with a grin and gives him a not-so-subtle lookover. “Oh! We were </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> talking about you. What a coincidence.” And lets her hand linger for a long moment. “Thank you for taking care of her. She means the world to us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She means the world to a lot of people, ma'am.” He replies with a smile, before turning his attention--and hand--to you, reaching for your uninjured palm. You offer it willingly, maybe a bit too quickly to seem natural. “How are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Great. I love drugs.” You drawl. “What about you? Your shoulder okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It’s been taken care of, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That’s a relief. “Good.” You give his hand a squeeze. “If I’d known you were gonna do what you did, I wouldn’t’ve shot at him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your mother lets out a strangled sound next to you. Shit. Right. She’s here. You quickly tack on a “Don’t worry, Mom, it’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor chuckles, then lets go of your hand. “If you hadn’t shot at him, I don’t think I would be here today.” He turns to your mother. “I owe your daughter my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The older woman puffs up with visible pride, lips curling into a goofy smile. “Well, aren’t the two of you a couple of heroes. I hope they honor the both of you once this whole…” She scrunches up her expression. “Android… business… calms down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Even without seeing Connor’s LED, you can tell he’s processing that remark. Sure enough, he looks back to you and furrows his brow. “You… haven’t told her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You grimace. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Told me </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Your mother leans in, hand reaching for your bicep. “Is everything okay? Should I be worried?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Shit. She isn’t going to like this, but you can’t hide it forever. You take a deep breath and sigh. “Connor’s--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Her boyfriend.” The android interrupts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Without thinking, you raise your bandaged hand and attempt to smack Connor’s forearm. It misses by a long shot, but Connor grabs it mid-swing and gently sets it back onto the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    So instead, you shoot him a glare. “You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> lucky I’m drugged up right now, or I’d punch you in the goddamn face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You’re lucky you’re drugged up, or that would have hurt a lot.” He smirks, before turning back to your confused, and extremely flustered, mother. “I’m her partner, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>And</span>
  </em>
  <span> an asshole.” You clarify, collapsing back into the pillow. Even with how woozy you’re feeling, you can read between the lines. Connor doesn’t want her to know he’s an android. Probably a smart idea, considering her reaction and recent events. It takes a huge weight off your shoulders, too. No need to come out of the proverbial closet just yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your mother seems to have taken the bait, laughing quietly and placing a hand on Connor’s bicep. “I can see why the two of you get along so well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He shies away from her touch for a split second, but leans back in with a smile. You hadn’t planned on the two of them meeting so soon, but at least it’s going </span>
  <em>
    <span>somewhat </span>
  </em>
  <span>well. You can worry about the whole android reveal later, you suppose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I should probably be on my way.” He reaches for your hand again to give it another tender squeeze. “I’ll be helping with legal proceedings this afternoon.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Working with the deviants, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you translate mentally. “Okay.” Then, flushing only slightly, you add, “Come over later to visit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor smiles and </span>
  <em>
    <span>winks. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I’ll make time just for you, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With that, he nods to your mother, then disappears out the curtains. You watch him go, squeezing your hand around the lingering warmth of his fingers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid, sexy machi--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> seems </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The suggestive tone in your mother’s voice is all you need to hear to know how obvious your blush must be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Can you save it for when I’m up and walking, Mom?” You grumble, raising your good hand to cover your face. “Speaking of which, I think I’d like to put some pants on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Okay, okay.” She sighs. “Let me get the nurse. She should know where your clothes are.” With a barely-stifled yawn, she stands, then meanders out the curtains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that you’re finally alone, you find yourself melting into the pillows, every ounce of stress floating away from your mind. The deviants are safe. Connor is alive. Your work is done. Your family is here, and everyone is okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    And best of all, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor’s heart is yours.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>    After an unnecessary wheelchair ride to your mom’s car, a quick stop at the pharmacy for pain meds and snacks, and one more at the local burger joint for a hasty lunch-dinner combination, you finally head back to your apartment. As you’re walking in, you notice your car’s parked in its usual spot--someone must’ve driven it back from CyberLife Tower, and you’ve got an idea as to who. So</span>
  <em>
    <span> thorough </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the way he cares. It brings a smile to your tired face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’d hoped your mom would let you have a few hours to yourself, but no dice there. At least she let you shower by yourself, though when you got out, you noticed she’d cleaned the kitchen top to bottom. You suppose you couldn’t complain about </span>
  <em>
    <span>that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    With nothing else to do but </span>
  <em>
    <span>take it easy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you turn the TV on mute, whip out an album for Mom to look at, and go sorting through your music library for something to listen to in the background. It’s then that you remember the data stick Connor gave you. Your mom’s not the biggest fan of opera, but she can put up with it for the night. Besides, you still want to know what he got you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It turns out to be an obscure, surrealist work by Braunfels called </span>
  <em>
    <span>Die Vögel, </span>
  </em>
  <span>The Birds. Ever the thorough gentleman, Connor also included a full translation of the libretto for you to follow along with. You give it a quick scan--two men abandon their lives to live amongst the birds--then shelve it for later. The music is nice, and the tenor’s voices are divine, though the best part is, of course, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor gave it to you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>“How have I not seen some of these photos?” Your mom complains from the couch, flipping another page in the album. “Didn’t I give you these?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You pad across the carpet to look over her shoulder. A teenage Kent, wearing whipped cream like a moustache on his face, is striking a very gentlemanly pose next to a far less enthused you. “No, that came off my old phone from high school. I thought I sent you that folder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You probably did, and it’s lying somewhere in my inbox.” She grumbles. “I’ll dig it up when I get home, I suppose. I got a new frame for the mantel in the living room, and this one here’s a good candidate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Her finger taps against the picture to the right of the first. You and your twin have your arms slung over each other’s shoulders, globs of whipped cream on your noses, and big, toothy grins. Your father’s fiftieth birthday party, if you’re remembering right. A night that ended with you throwing up in the toilet and Kent throwing up in the bathtub after eating way too many maraschino cherries. It’s a good picture, though, one that brings both warmth and wistful sadness to your heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The doorbell rings, drawing both of your attentions to the front door. Before you can take a single step, your mother leaps off the couch, practically tossing the album to the side. “I’ll get it!” She chimes. You’re all-too-aware of the self-satisfied smile on her lips--she absolutely knows who you’re expecting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Her fingers turn the deadbolt, then jerk open the door. “Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hi, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor!” She emphasizes her greeting with an overexaggerated shifting of her hips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, boy. Here she goes. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Are those for us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Sure enough, your partner’s standing outside, cradling a bouquet of flowers in his arms. His hat’s still pulled over his LED, though that stubborn lock of hair is poking out again. Impossibly cute, as always.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Good evening. Yes, these are for the Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He proffers the bouquet to your mother, who takes them with a barely-suppressed squeal. “You make yourself comfortable,” she croons, batting her eyelashes at your partner. “I’ll go find a vase. Honey, do you have any vases?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No, but I’ve got beer glasses.” You snort, jerking a thumb towards the kitchen. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor can come into </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    She </span>
  <em>
    <span>tsks</span>
  </em>
  <span> at you as she walks by. “I’ll find </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>to put these in, then.” At least she’ll be distracted while you greet Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You walk towards the door and hold out a hand to take his jacket, but he shakes his head and taps two fingers to his right bicep. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Armband. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>had a chance to completely change yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Ah.” You whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He whispers back. “The flowers are from Markus and the others. They wish you a speedy recovery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor glances at the couch. When you answer his implied question with a nod, he shuffles over to take a seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Did you eat dinner already, Connor?” Your mother calls from the kitchen. Glasses clink and clatter as she digs around in one of your cabinets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “”I did, thank you for asking.” He clasps his hands in his lap and leans forward. “I won’t stay long. I just had a few things to discuss with the Detective, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The cabinet door slams shut, startling both you and Connor. Moving lightning-fast, your mother     tosses the bouquet onto your kitchen counter, swipes up her purse, and charges the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, don’t let me be your third wheel!” She titters, placing a hand on your shoulder, then Connor’s. “I’ll just head back to the hotel now. Call me if you need me tonight, okay, sweetie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Mom--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Too late. She’s already got her jacket and hat on. “You two </span>
  <em>
    <span>heroes </span>
  </em>
  <span>have a nice little talk, okay?” With a barely-subtle wink, she disappears out the front door, closing it with a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>click.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    The two of you stare at her afterimage for a moment, still reeling from the maternal whirlwind. Eventually, Connor breaks the silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, at least I won’t have to ask if I can speak with you in private.” He quips, tugging off his hat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You snort out a laugh. “Sure, give her even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>ideas about the two of us. Just what I needed during my recovery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He chuckles in return, and you can’t help but savor the warm, dulcet tones of his voice. Maybe it’s the placebo effect, but you definitely think he sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>human now that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s deviant. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>He’s deviant, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a dark, familiar voice echoes within you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That means it’s okay for </span>
  </em>
  <span>you </span>
  <em>
    <span>to get deviant with </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Despite its egging you on, you feel the telltale thrumming of anxiety instead. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’ve been lusting after him for ages, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you accept the fact that you love him, and he loves </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but still, that doesn’t mean you can just ignore social propriety and start </span>
  <em>
    <span>macking </span>
  </em>
  <span>on him with little or no restraint. Do androids </span>
  <em>
    <span>care </span>
  </em>
  <span>about social propriety, though? Does </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor?</span>
  </em>
  <span> What does </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>want out of--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His voice derails your runaway train of thought. “Yeah, sorry, what’s up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Is it alright if I ask you a few questions?” Connor pauses. “About what happened at CyberLife Tower.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You try to reassure your panicking brain that </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, this is a good thing, and will only lead to sex, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it’s hard to get over that knee-jerk reaction. “Yeah, sure, uh--want me to come sit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “If you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re not sure what you want, but you round the couch and take an awkward seat next to him, anyway. Actually, </span>
  <em>
    <span>scratch that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>what you want, but you’re not sure how to get from </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes I lied to you </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>can I touch your dick, though? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    At least you’re not the only one who’s nervous. As you shuffle up against the cushions, you notice his hands are fidgeting in his lap. You glance up and spot a telltale blush on his cheeks. Strangely enough, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>fraying nerves bolster your confidence, and you find just enough of it to start the conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “So, uh.” You huff, adjusting your arm in its sling. “What did you want to ask?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You feel his weight shift on the cushion as he stiffens. “At the Tower, you said you developed feelings for me before you visited the Eden Club. Are these feelings you still hold at present?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A nervous laugh escapes your chest without permission, though it does make you feel a bit better. “Jesus, Connor, way to be direct.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Would you prefer that I wasn’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No, no, it’s fine, just--shit.” You really wish you had both hands to cover your reddening face right now. Guess your left will do. “Well, yeah, I--I thought that was obvious. I mean, you saw, right? You knew.” You swallow your spit and force out more words. “About what I did at the Eden Club.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His arms tense against his sides. “Yes.” Hearing it out in the open only reminds you of the guilt and shame you’ve buried deep in the recesses of your mind. “Still, I wasn’t--I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>quite sure if those feelings are purely physical in nature, or…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The unfinished sentence hangs in the air for far too long, enough so that you jump in to fill the awkward silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I-I mean,” you stammer, trying desperately to sound composed, but failing, “at first, yeah, I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, so sure, it was all physical attraction. I mean, have you looked at yourself in a mirror? Shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You let out another nervous laugh. “But yeah, when I started to know you better, I just-- I don’t know. It’s hard because I didn’t know you were deviant, so I thought-- I thought it was kind of creepy to, you know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be with someone who can’t understand what it means, or consent, or--or--do I really have to say all this out loud?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You tear your eyes away from your lap to glance at him. He’s looking in your direction, gaze focused, jaw set, LED yellow and </span>
  <em>
    <span>processing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I-- Yes, if you don’t mind.” He wets his lips, as if to </span>
  <em>
    <span>spite </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, and continues. “Is that why you didn’t say anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You mean--about this whole thing?” You gesture at the space between you, then laugh when he responds with a solemn nod. “Well, yeah, that was kind of the point, you not knowing. I didn’t want </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>knowing, what with, you know…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The implication brings to mind the words his imposter had threatened him with. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Detective was more worried about what other people would think than admit her feelings for an android. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Words that were truer than you’d like to admit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You rush to defend yourself from them before he can ask another question. “I know what that </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>android said at the Tower, and maybe he was right, that--that I didn’t want to try anything because of who or what you, me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we, </span>
  </em>
  <span>are.” Your good hand balls into a tight fist as you force the words out. “But--but I don’t know, maybe it’ll be different now that androids are getting rights and shit, so maybe--maybe--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Maybe?” His voice is barely a murmur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You squeeze your eyes shut and spit it out. “Maybe it’s--worth a try. You and me.” You exhale a long, nervous breath, then peek out the corner of your eye to gauge his reaction. “I mean, if that’s what you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor flushes, but doesn’t look away. “That is what I want, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The tension floods out of your taut muscles all at once, carried on a sigh that threatens to bring tears to your eyes. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>it before, but now you’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>heard </span>
  </em>
  <span>it from his own lips. There are no more doubts. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>this for </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not for anyone else, or for some code injected into his systems. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He </span>
  </em>
  <span>wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Alright.” You whisper, unsure of what else to say. “Cool.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Confidence. Gotta work up that confidence. You’re alone. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Come on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Detective. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Don’t pussy out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Mustering up what you can of your frayed nerves, you slap a grin on your face and turn to face him. “So you made </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>talk. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>turn, mister deviant.” When he shrinks down in the cushion and smiles sheepishly, you find your confidence building. Good. “You’re so cool with </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanting </span>
  </em>
  <span>things now, why don’t you tell me some of what you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I--I wouldn’t say I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>cool </span>
  </em>
  <span>with it, but--alright.” He lets out a nervous chuckle of his own, then sighs. “I would like--I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That’s it.” You snort, glad he corrected himself before you had to jump in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor glances away at the last second. “I want to hold your hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The request is so innocent, it torches the courage you were building in your heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh.” You sigh. “Yeah, we can do that.” You extend your left hand, palm up. “You’re gonna have to make do with this one for now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That’s--that’s alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He lifts his right hand and brings it towards yours. It hovers there for a moment, exuding nervous hesitation. Not one to wait, you close the gap between your palms and wrap your fingers around him, squeezing it tight. It takes a moment for his fingers to do the same, but eventually, he reciprocates, holding onto you with a warm, all-too-familiar weight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “There you go.” You murmur, drinking in his flustered yet stalwart expression. “How’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He closes his eyes and exhales. You can see the tension evaporate from his shoulders, not to mention his LED has gone from yellow to blue. “It’s… nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What else do you want to do?” You lean in slightly, rubbing the pads of your fingers against his synthetic skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor’s eyes blink open, then immediately turn to stare at the wall. “Th-there’s no need to rush ahead, just this is fine, thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh, you’re not getting off the hook that easy, Sweetheart.” You slip your hand from his and plant your elbow up on the back of the sofa. “Come on. You embarrassed me, now I get to embarrass you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He opens his mouth to protest, but closes it. Once again, his hands start to fidget in his lap. “I--I want you to touch me.” The words come out in one long, hurried breath. “And tell me I’ve done well.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Oh, you can do </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much </span>
  </em>
  <span>with this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    In an instant, your anxiety is gone, replaced by a lust that’s been building in your loins for </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A grin spreads over your lips, and your good hand begins drifting over towards his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That can be arranged.” You croon, shuffling a bit closer. “After all, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>done very well, Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your fingertips alight on his collar, eliciting a shiver as he straightens his back. “Thank you, Detective.” He replies matter-of-factly, though you can hear the slight waver in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It must have been so scary,” you begin, “learning you were deviant, despite being taught that deviancy was wrong.” You turn your hand to trail your knuckles underneath his chin. “But you did so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Thank--” His voice is barely a squeak now. “Thank you, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You can barely contain yourself now. Another awkward shuffle to your left, and your hip comes into contact with his thigh. Now that you’re closer, though, you can crane your neck and bring your lips closer to his ear, which you do without a second’s pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You’re such…” Your thumb brushes over a tiny divot beneath his ear. “...a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good boy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A moan gets strangled and muffled in his throat as he clamps his jaw shut. His eyes, still focused on the wall, flutter half-closed. He’s trying </span>
  <em>
    <span>so hard </span>
  </em>
  <span>to restrain himself, and that just won’t do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You bring your face closer, nose just barely brushing against his hairline. “I always </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought </span>
  </em>
  <span>you might like that. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>being a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good boy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yes.” He whispers, still frozen stiff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, then, will you be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>and tell me what </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    This time, there’s markedly less hesitation. “I want-- I want to do what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>want.” His breath hitches as you touch your lips to his ear. “I--I want you to do to me what--what you did to that </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>android.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The words spark a fire in your nethers, but caution in your heart. “Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure? </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re supposed to tell me what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>want, Connor.” You prod. “I want </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> to make your </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>decisions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It is my own decision.” He blurts out. “I--I saw what you did, and--and it frustrated me. I wanted to--to pleasure you. It should have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I--I know I shouldn’t, but--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His LED’s gone from yellow to red, so you step in before the poor thing can stress himself out any further. “Hey.” You whisper in his ear, moving your hand to gently caress his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>very good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As expected, those words do the trick, calming him almost immediately. It’s cute as </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but you’ve got bigger and better things to tackle right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You want to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good boy </span>
  </em>
  <span>for me, then?” You pull away from his head to meet his flustered gaze. “Because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He lets out what can only be described as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>dreamy sigh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Yes.” Finally, he looks at you, cheeks flushed, lips wet. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Who were you to deny him? “Alright. We need a little more space, though,” you huff, scooting away. “Why don’t you start by carrying me to my bed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor’s expression doesn’t change, but you can see him light up from the twinkle in his eyes, not to mention the speed with which he stands and turns to you. With one smooth motion, he scoops you up in his arms, ever careful of your injury, and pulls you close to his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “God,” you hiss, barely shifting as he pads down the short hallway to your bedroom. “You’re always so </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking eager </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>please.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I--” From your position, you can hear the stuttering of the vocal processor in his neck. “That’s because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to please, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I can tell. You’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>been such a good boy for me, Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His fingers twitch against your knee. If he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>excited by a few words, you can’t imagine how he’ll react when you start </span>
  <em>
    <span>touching him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He crouches down, then sets you in a sitting position at the head of the bed, skillfully maneuvering a pillow to support your lower back. Once he’s sure you’re settled, he sits down on the edge, hands folded on the comforter, torso turned towards you, eyes </span>
  <em>
    <span>sparkling </span>
  </em>
  <span>with desperate need.</span>
</p><p><span>    You take in the sight, admiring it like a fine painting. Connor is here, </span><em><span>ready </span></em><span>for you, </span><em><span>willing </span></em><span>to do </span><em><span>anything </span></em><span>your filthy heart desires. Only downside is your right hand being bandaged up to the crook of your elbow. One less hand to touch him with, and a whole lot less positions to put yourself into. Good thing he’s so willing to </span><em><span>serve. </span></em><span>You can make use of him,</span> <span>all right.</span></p><p>
  <span>    Before that, though, you feel compelled to check one last time. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>you want me to tell you what I want, Connor? I’d feel guilty if you spent your first day of freedom serving another human.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He blushes, then shakes his head vigorously. “No, I-- I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do this for you, Detective. Please. It--it would make me happy if you let me--let me serve you.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>God, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the way his teeth gently tug at his lower lip. The way he glances away for a brief second as he weighs his words. The way his hand creeps closer to you, millimeter by millimeter, as he waits for your response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You’re going to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>devour </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Alright.” You lift one ankle to cross it over the other. “Take off your shirt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He nods and gets right to work. First comes the tie: dexterous fingers tugging at the knot until it’s loose, then slipping the silky fabric from around his collar. Next, the buttons of his shirt, one by one, removed in a quick, steady, precise rhythm. Once the front flutters open, he shrugs it off his shoulders, then gently sets it on the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your eyes flick over his naked torso, taking in the smattering of freckles across his collar and the modest physique CyberLife has seen fit to bless him with. Your focus lingers on his left shoulder, unmarred and perfect, though you know a bullet--</span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> bullet--sliced through the plasteel and biocomponents less than a day ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That’s so unfair.” You snort, pointing at said shoulder. “Wish I could replace my hand that fast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    One edge of his lips turns up in a half-smile. “If it makes you feel better, I had to use a non-standard part to perform a quick repair. It’s not exactly comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yeah, but you’ve got two arms. I’ve got this.” You grumble, lifting your bandaged forearm. “Enough talking. Get up here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You gesture to your left and pat the mattress. He wastes no time, shifting his legs up onto the bed and shuffling around your body to kneel next to you. Now that he’s closer, you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>get a good look at those freckles on his chest--they trail down from his raised collarbone to his navel, and probably even </span>
  <em>
    <span>lower. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Wow.” You raise your index finger to trace a line from his sternum to his chin, tipping it upwards to expose his neck. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>gorgeous.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor closes his eyes and sighs out a reply. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>gorgeous, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “By chance, not by design.” Your finger smooths over his neck to dip into the divot behind his ear. When it curls inwards, the android shudders, muffling another moan in his throat. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>adorable.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And such a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good boy.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    The combination of </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>praise </span>
  </em>
  <span>finally draws a low, purred-out groan from your android parner, one that drives heat deep into your core. No more games. You need him on you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Straddle me.” You command, shifting into a half-reclining position. He complies immediately. Soon, he’s hovering above you on all fours, forehead inches away from your own. Your good hand reaches for his cheek, smoothing over his cheek, nose, and lips. So soft. So </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like the rest of him. His eyes watch your every movement, glimmering with excitement, anxiety, and that wonderful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful </span>
  </em>
  <span>spark of eagerness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    His cheek twitches underneath your touch, and it takes everything you have to hold back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Kiss me.” You breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor does, leaning in a bit too quickly for your liking, but who the hell were you to complain when his lips were on yours? Fuck, it’s even </span>
  <em>
    <span>better </span>
  </em>
  <span>than earlier, too; you don’t have to worry about getting out of here anytime soon, and you’re not in horrible pain. You can focus on the gentle motions of his mouth, the warm touch of his nose, the hitch in his breath as you press back. When you part your lips, he does the same, though it’s not until you touch your tongue to his that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally </span>
  </em>
  <span>fulfills your long, perverted desire to </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You sigh into the kiss and let your hand drift downwards, first over his back, then around his side to explore his chest. It’s incredible how warm he is, humanly so, though you could swear the skin just above his heart runs hotter than the rest of him. As your fingers dip down his side, they catch in another tiny, barely-noticeable divot. At the touch, he shudders and gasps into your mouth, breaking the kiss as sensation overwhelms him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Does that feel good?” You purr against his shivering lips. “Would you like me to do that again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I-- yes, Detective.” His whisper comes in stutters as you toy with the divot. “I-I want you to touch me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>been very good so far.” Your finger tilts to press the flat of your fingertip against his sensitive spot. “But I want </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>to touch me, too. Will you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    To encourage him, you arch your back, rolling your still-clothed chest into his bare ribs. He pulls back to rest his weight on your pelvis, nervous hands reaching for your shoulders, then smoothing down over the rise and fall of your chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Detective--” His voice cuts off abruptly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor stiffens, then asks his burning question. “I’d like to--I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to remove your shirt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You flash him a devious smile. “I suppose you’ve been </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He offers you a hand, which you use to lean forward. His hands make quick work of your loose T-shirt, pulling it up to your armpits, then letting you shuffle your uninjured left arm through the arm hole, before slowly sliding it over your bandaged right arm. Instinctively, he reaches for a clasp on your back, but suddenly stops as he realizes you’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>wearing </span>
  </em>
  <span>a bra.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Go on.” You murmur, settling back into the pillows. “You know what to do, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That, he does, and he gets right fucking to it, too, by placing one hand on your right breast, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>his fucking mouth on your left. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Deft fingers gently squeeze and roll, and his </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking tongue</span>
  </em>
  <span>, holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit--</span>
  </em>
  <span>whatever he’s doing to your nipple, it triggers a gasp, then a moan you weren’t even anticipating. At the sound, his brown eyes flick up to your expression, wide and innocent and </span>
  <em>
    <span>eager.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    You thread your fingers into his hair, then rake your nails across his scalp. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Good boy,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you groan, catching your bottom lip between your incisors. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re so fucking good.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    He moans in return, and the vibrations at your nipple feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>profanely</span>
  </em>
  <span> good. God, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>better </span>
  </em>
  <span>than you could’ve imagined, and just thinking about those lips and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that fucking tongue </span>
  </em>
  <span>between your legs is wreaking havoc on your panties.  As badly as you want this to go on for hours and hours, if he keeps this up, you’re not going to last much fucking longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    So you give his head a jerk, tearing his mouth from your chest. He lets out a quiet whine, but stays still in your grip. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Connor,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> you pant, breath hot and humid and needy. “I need those fingers </span>
  <em>
    <span>in me.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He purses his lips and nods, raising the fingers of his right hand to his lips. He opens his mouth to press his fingertips to the flat of his tongue, a motion you’ve seen too many times before, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>this close, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>for </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>purpose. When they come back from his tongue, they’re slick with something wet and viscous that wasn’t there before. You’re not about to ask questions, though, because immediately after, those fingers disappear beneath him, quickly dipping underneath your sweatpants and underwear and going </span>
  <em>
    <span>straight </span>
  </em>
  <span>for your dripping entrance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fuck--</span>
  <em>
    <span>shit!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> You shudder, your left hand clamping down onto his bicep as he slips both his forefinger and middle finger into your wetness, plunging deep and firm with barely any resistance. When his thumb curls upwards to tease at your clit, you squirm in his grip and let out another barrage of half-whispered, half-whined swear words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    When you find enough brain cells to open your eyes, you catch him staring up at you, head resting on one soft breast, body leaning into yours, as if desperate to absorb your warmth. Your hand finds itself in his hair again, brushing it up and over his forehead. Nothing could have prepared you for how </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect </span>
  </em>
  <span>this moment could be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking good at this,” you chuckle between strangled gasps. Your ribs buck upwards into his cheek as one circular motion of his thumb sends lightning up your spine. “Should’ve--asked you to do this </span>
  <em>
    <span>earlier.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    His hand slows its ministrations between your legs, but only barely. Still maintaining eye contact, he rubs his nose against the curve of your breast. “Detective, I--I want to try something. Is that alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You punctuate your next gasp with a laugh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor, if it’s half as good as your fucking fingers, go right ahead, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor smiles, presses his lips to your chest--</span>
  <em>
    <span>cute, why is he so fucking cute?</span>
  </em>
  <span>--then shuffles his body lower, trailing his unoccupied hand down your side. Said hand then plants itself on your thigh, gently easing it open so he can maneuver his shoulders between your legs and </span>
  <em>
    <span>lower his fucking tongue to your goddamn--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    “Shit!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You hiss, head flying backwards into the pillow as the first </span>
  <em>
    <span>lick </span>
  </em>
  <span>around your lower lips and clit sends a tidal wave of pleasure crashing over you. Your hands fly to his head, fingers curling into his hair and scalp. Your thighs twitch inwards, as if to squeeze shut around his head, but he braces against them with his free hand. His </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> hand continues to pump at you, perfectly matching the rhythm of his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It’s good. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really </span>
  </em>
  <span>good. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Too fucking good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You can barely find the breath to speak with what his </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking tongue </span>
  </em>
  <span>is doing to your body. Hell, you can barely get a coherent thought in. It’s taking everything you have to stay conscious and breathing. You’re vaguely aware of the absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>shameful</span>
  </em>
  <span> sounds passing through your lips, but honestly, you couldn’t care, not when </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s got his mouth on your cunt.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck--”</span>
  </em>
  <span> you whine, teeth cutting into your lower lip. “Fuck, you’re gonna-- you’re gonna make me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Using your last shred of sanity, you glance down at him, peering deep into his beautiful eyes, locked on yours, even as his lips and tongue work at you. Your fingers slip through his hair, over his crown, around his ear, your thumb passing over the slight rise of his softly-glowing LED. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Just as you do, his fingers press up into you, and his tongue curls around your clit, and with a barely restrained </span>
  <em>
    <span>“fuck!”</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you come undone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Your release crashes over you like a tidal wave, squeezing and twisting at your insides with white-hot pleasure and curling you forwards. You barely have the strength, or presence of mind, to keep yourself from moaning out a barely-intelligible string of swears. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Holy--fuck, fuck--”</span>
  </em>
  <span> His tongue twitches against you, forcing another shudder of pleasure through your tensing muscles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Connor--you--</span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking--</span>
  <em>
    <span>shit!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>For a second, you’re worried </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to fucking bluescreen on </span>
  <em>
    <span>him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>what with how your entire body is convulsing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    When he opens his mouth to drag the flat of his tongue against you </span>
  <em>
    <span>again, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re forced to pull the plug on his efforts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Stop, stop!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You gasp, pulling him backwards by the grip on his hair. Thankfully, he complies, rising onto all fours, then sitting up onto his knees--though not without his tongue darting out and </span>
  <em>
    <span>licking his fucking lips.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Sorry, Detective.” He’d sound more sincere if it weren’t for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>slightest </span>
  </em>
  <span>smirk tugging at his sheepish smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fucking--</span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> you are.” You gasp, letting your legs splay out onto the bed. “God, you’re gonna </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill</span>
  </em>
  <span> someone with that tongue. Jesus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That would be counter-productive, Detective.” Oh yeah, there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>a hint of pride in his voice. Smarmy motherfucker. “May I make another selfish request?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You let out a chuckle and close your eyes. “Sweetheart, after </span>
  <em>
    <span>that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you can have anything you fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>want.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor falls quiet as he shifts his weight, crawling over your exhausted legs and rolling onto his side next to you. His arm reaches under your good shoulder to latch onto your shoulder, then pull himself closer, until his head is tucked into the crook of your bicep and breast. His other hand slides across your middle. When he’s done, he’s completely nestled into your side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    He’s cute. So </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>cute. You can’t resist the urge to stroke your hand through his hair, so you do, brushing that lock of hair up and off his forehead, then watching as it flutters back down.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You did good.” You purr. The quiet hum at your chest brings a warm smile to your lips. “You like being my good boy, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Connor responds with a small nod. “I like being </span>
  <em>
    <span>yours.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” His chin rubs against the soft skin of your chest as he speaks. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    You press a kiss to the top of his head. “Good. Because you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As Connor relaxes into your chest, you let yourself indulge in the joy of knowing this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>happening. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sure, the world outside that door might be going to shit. It might completely change on a dime tomorrow, and again the day after that. What you’re doing now is </span>
  <em>
    <span>bound </span>
  </em>
  <span>to cause all sorts of new, horrific problems for you to suffer through for the next few weeks, months, </span>
  <em>
    <span>years. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    So much will be lost, but none of that seems to matter. Right now, you’ve got </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>in your arms, in your heart,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    and you’re not sure if you’ll ever let him go.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(If you haven't read the other ending yet, I strongly suggest it! :) )</p><p>Additional reading:<br/>Water, Water Everywhere: Connor's perspective of Chapter 11 (The Eden Club Investigation)<br/>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397412</p><p>Waterlogged: A dark, hypothetical sequel to Not a Drop to Drink, told from Connor's perspective. </p><p>When a routine call goes south, Connor makes a split-second decision to alter his programming to increase his odds of survival, but what once seems like a harmless priority adjustment soon threatens to jeopardize the future of his newly liberated kind--and his relationship with the Detective.</p><p>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27077740/chapters/66115069</p><p>------</p><p>Thank yous are in order!</p><p>- my betas: CS, RT, and KP, who got me into this mess in the first place and stuck with me through a steadily increasing word count (and helped with particularly tough parts/plot points!)</p><p>- the members of the femdom ecosystem server, who both put up with my constant blathering about androidfuckers and encouraged my increasingly manic writing sessions</p><p>- subscribers/commenters to this story who left kind/excited/screamed-out reactions to the story and, in turn, encouraging my pandemic ass to write like a madwoman</p><p>-  you, whoever you are, however many days or years down the line, who decided to get all the way through this fic.</p><p> </p><p>If you liked this fic, you may like my original femdom fantasy fic The Virtues of a Well-Kept Man, in which a hard-boiled, stoic lawwoman attempts to solve the mystery of the lineage of her new male servant. Contains lots of plot, copious amounts of porn, and sociocultural exploration of a fantasy matriarchal society!</p><p>You can find me (and other femdom-centric writers and readers) on the Femdom Ecosystem Discord server here:<br/>https://discord.gg/H35WwBZ</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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